THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE   PIONEER 


THE  PIONEER 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  STATES 


By 

GERALDINE  BONNER 

Author  of  Tomorrow'*  Tangle 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

HARRISON  FISHER 


NEW   YORK 
A.    WESSELS   COMPANY 

1907 


COPYRIGHT  1905 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

March 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I 


7J 


THE  COUNTRY  /  5  U  * 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I   THE  SQUATTER  3 

II   THE  GRACEY  BOYS  12 

III  THE  NAME  OF  ALLEN  27 

IV  O,  MINE  ENEMY!  44 
V   THE  SUMMONS  54 

VI   THE  OLD  LOVE  65 

VII    UNCLE  JIM  85 

VIII    PRIZES  OF  ACCIDENT  99 

BOOK  II 
THE  TOWN 

I    DOWN  IN  THE  CITY  109 

II    FEMININE  LOGIC  126 

III  ONE  OF  EVE'S  FAMILY  140 

IV  DANGER  SIGNALS  153 
V   THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  166 

VI    READJUSTMENT  183 

VII    BUSINESS  AND  SENTIMENT  192 

VIII    NEW  PLANETS  201 

IX   THE  CHOICE  OF  MAIDS  214 

X   THE  QUICKENING  CURRENT  225 

XI    LUPE'S  CHAINS  ARE  BROKEN  230 

XII   A  MAN  AND  His  PRICE  241 

XIII  THE  BREAKING  POINT  252 

XIV  BED-ROCK  265 


BOOK  III 
THE  DESERT 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I   NEVADA  281 

II   OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES  286 

III  SMOLDERING  EMBXRS  304 

IV  A  WOMAN'S  "No"  316 
V  "  HER  FEET  Go  DOWN  TO  DEATH  "  329 

VI  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE  341 

VII   THE  COLONEL  COMES  BACK  352 

VIII  THE  AROUSED  LION  368 

IX  HOME  381 


THE  PIONEER 


BOOK     I 

THE    COUNTRY 


THE     PIONEER 

CHAPTER   I 

THE  SQUATTER 

It  had  been  five  o'clock  in  the  clear,  still  freshness 
of  a  May  morning  when  the  Colonel  had  started 
from  Sacramento.  Now,  drawing  rein  where  the 
shadow  of  a  live-oak  lay  like  a  black  pool  across 
the  road,  he  looked  at  his  watch — almost  five.  The 
sun  had  nearly  wheeled  from  horizon  to  horizon. 

During  the  burning  noon  hour  he  had  rested  at 
Murderer's  Bar.  Except  for  that  he  had  been  in  the 
saddle  all  day,  slackening  speed  where  the  road 
passed  over  the  burnt  shoulder  of  the  foot-hills,  de- 
scending into  sheltered  canons  by  cool  river  beds, 
pacing  along  stretches  of  deserted  highway  where  his 
mounted  figure  was  the  only  living  thing  in  sight. 

Stationary  in  the  shade  of  the  live-oak  he  looked 
about  him.  The  rich  foot-hill  country  of  California 
stretched  away  beneath  his  gaze  in  lazy  undulations, 
dotted  with  the  forms  of  the  oaks.  The  grass  on 
unprotected  hilltops  was  already  drying  to  an  ocher 
yellow,  the  road  was  deep  in  dust.  Far  away,  hang- 
ing on  the  horizon  like  a  faded  mirage,  was  the  high 
Sierra,  thin,  snow-touched,  a  faint,  aerial  vision. 

The  sleepy  sounds  of  midday  had  died  down  and 
3 


4  THE  PIONEER 

the  strange,  dream-like  silence  so  peculiar  to  Cali- 
fornia held  the  scene.  It  was  like  looking  at  a  pic- 
ture, the  Colonel  thought,  as  he  turned  in  his  saddle 
and  surveyed  the  misty  line  of  hill  after  hill,  bare  and 
wooded,  dwindling  down  to  where — a  vast,  sea-like 
expanse  swimming  in  opalescent  tints — stretched  one 
of  the  fruitful  valleys  of  the  world. 

Kit  Carson,  the  finest  horse  procurable  in  the  Sac- 
ramento livery  stable  the  Colonel  patronized,  stamped 
and  flicked  off  a  fly  with  his  long  tail.  His  rider 
muttered  a  word  of  endearment  and  bent  to  pat 
the  silky  neck,  while  his  eyes  continued  to  move 
over  the  great  panorama.  He  had  traversed  it  many 
times.  The  first  time  of  all  rose  in  his  mind,  when 
in  the  flush  of  his  splendid  manhood,  he  had  sought 
fortune  on  the  bars  and  river-beds  in  forty-nine. 
Forty-nine!  That  was  twenty-one  years  ago. 

Something  in  the  thought  clouded  his  brow  and 
called  a  sigh  to  his  lips.  He  made  a  gesture  as 
though  shaking  off  a  painful  memory  and  gathered 
up  the  hanging  rein. 

"Come,  Kit,"  he  said  aloud,  "we've  got  to  be  mov- 
ing. There's  fifteen  miles  yet  between  us  and 
supper." 

The  road  before  them  mounted  a  spur  at  the  top 
of  which  it  branched,  one  fork  winding  up  and  on 
to  the  mining  towns  hidden  in  the  mountain  crevices. 
The  other  turned  to  the  right,  and  rising  and  fall- 
ing over  the  buttresses  that  the  foot-hills  thrust  into 
the  plain,  wandered  down  "the  mother  lode,"  the 
great  mineral  belt  of  California. 

As  they  rose  to  the  summit  of  the  spur,  the  bril- 


THE  SQUATTER  5 

liancy  of  the  air  was  tarnished  by  a  cloud  of  dust, 
and  the  silence  disrupted  by  sounds.  The  crack  of 
whips  cut  into  the  tranquillity  of  the  evening  hour; 
the  jangling  of  bells  and  voices  of  men  mingled  in 
strident  dissonance.  Both  Kit  and  the  Colonel  rose 
above  the  curve  of  the  hilltop  with  the  pricked  ears 
and  alert  eyes  of  curiosity. 

The  left-hand  road  was  blocked  as  far  as  could 
be  seen  with  a  long  mule  train,  one  of  the  trains 
that  a  few  years  before  had  crossed  the  Sierra  to 
Virginia  City,  and  still  plied  a  trade  with  the  Cali- 
fornia mountain  towns.  The  dust  rose  from  it  and 
covered  it  as  though  to  shut  out  from  Heaven  the 
vision  of  the  straining  animals,  and  deaden  the  blas- 
phemies of  the  men.  Looking  along  its  struggling 
length,  the  end  of  which  was  lost  round  a  turn  of 
the  road,  the  Colonel  could  see  the  pointed  ears,  the 
stretched  necks,  and  the  arched  collars  of  the  mules, 
the  canvas  tops  of  the  wagons  and  over  all,  darting 
back  and  forth,  the  leaping  flash  of  the  whips. 

A  forward  wagon  was  stuck,  and,  groaning  and 
creaking  from  an  unsuccessful  effort  to  start  it,  the 
train  subsided  into  panting  relaxation.  From  the 
dust  the  near-by  drivers  emerged,  caught  sight  of 
the  rider,  and  slouched  toward  him.  They  were 
powerful  men — great  men  in  their  day,  the  California 
mule  drivers. 

They  passed  the  time  of  day,  told  him  their  des- 
tination and  asked  his.  Going  on  to  Foleys,  was  he? 
Mining?  Supposed  not.  Not  much  mining  done 
round  Fpleys  now.  Like  Virginia,  pretty  well  pe- 
tered, 


6  THE  PIONEER 

"Virginia!"  said  one  of  them,  "you'd  oughter  see 
Virginia!  I've  taken  my  sixteen-mule  team  over 
the  Strawberry  Creek  route  and  made  my  ten  dollars 
a  day  in  Virginia,  but  it's  as  dead  now  as  forty- 
nine." 

Then  they  slouched  back  to  their  work.  Through 
the  churned-up  dust,  red  with  the  brightness  of  the  de- 
clining sun,  men  came  swinging  down  from  the  for- 
ward end  of  the  train,  driving  mules  to  attach  to 
the  stalled  wagon.  About  it  there  was  a  concen- 
trating of  movement  and  then  an  outburst  of  furious 
energy.  A  storm  of  profanity  arose,  the  dust  as- 
cended like  a  pillar  of  red  smoke,  and  in  it  the 
forms  of  men  struggled,  and  the  lashes  of  the  whips 
came  and  went  like  the  writhing  tentacles  of  an 
octopus.  The  watcher  had  a  glimpse  of  the  mules 
almost  sitting  in  the  violence  of  their  endeavor,  and 
with  a  howl  of  triumph  the  wagon  lurched  forward. 
The  next  moment  the  entire  train  was  in  motion, 
seeming  to  advance  with  a  single  movement,  like  a 
gigantic  serpent,  each  wagon-top  a  section  of  its 
vertebrate  length,  the  whole  undulating  slowly  to  the 
rhythmic  jangling  of  the  bells. 

The  Colonel  took  the  turning  to  the  right  and 
was  soon  traversing  a  road  which  looped  in  gradual 
descent  along  the  wall  of  a  ravine.  The  air  was 
chilled  by  a  river  that  tumbled  over  stones  below. 
Greenery  of  tree  and  chaparral  ran  up  the  walls. 
A  white  root  gripping  a  rock  like  knotty  fingers,  a 
spattering  of  dogwood  here  and  there  amid  the 
.foliage,  caught  his  eye. 

Yes,    VirgjjoJ£  Jjad    unquestionably    "petered."     It 


THE  SQUATTER  7 

had  had  a  short  life  for  its  promise.  Even  in  sixty- 
eight  they  still  had  had  hopes  of  it.  This  was  May, 
the  May  of  seventy,  and  their  hopes  had  not  been 
realized.  Fortunately  he  had  invested  little  there. 
California  the  Colonel  had  found  a  good  enough 
field  for  his  investments. 

He  rode  on  out  of  the  ravine,  once  again  into  the  dry 
rolling  land,  his  mind  turning  over  that  question  of 
investments.  He  had  not  much  else  to  think  of.  He 
was  a  lonely  man,  unmarried,  childless,  and  rich. 
What  else  was  there  for  a  man,  who  had  passed  his 
fifty-fifth  year,  who  did  not  care  for  women  or  plea- 
sure, to  concern  himself  about?  It  was  not  satisfying; 
it  brought  him  no  happiness,  but  he  had  had  no  ex- 
pectation of  that. 

Twenty-one  years  ago  the  Colonel  had  waked  to 
the  realization  that  he  had  missed  happiness.  She  had 
been  his,  in  his  very  arms  then,  and  he  had  thought 
to  keep  her  there  for  ever.  Then  suddenly  she  had 
gone,  without  warning,  tearing  herself  from  his 
grasp,  and  he  had  known  that  she  would  never  return. 
So  he  had  tried  to  fill  the  blankness  she  had  left, 
with  business — a  sorry  substitute!  He  had  spent  a 
good  deal  of  time  and  thought  over  this  matter  of 
investing,  and  had  seen  his  fortune  accumulating  in 
a  safe,  gradual  way.  It  would  have  been  much  larger 
than  it  was  if  he  could  have  cured  himself  of  a 
tendency  to  give  portions  of  it  away.  But  the 
Colonel  was  a  pioneer,  and  there  were  many  pio- 
neers who  had  succeeded  better  than  he  in  finding 
happiness,  if  not  so  well  in  gaining  riches.  As  they 
had  been  successful  in  the  one  way,  he  had  tried 


8  THE  PIONEER 

'to  remedy  a  deficit  in  the  other,  and  his  fortune  re- 
mained at  about  the  same  comfortable  level,  despite 
his  preoccupation  in  investments. 

This  very  trip  was  to  see  about  a  new  one  in 
which  there  were  great  possibilities.  He  had  a  strip 
of  land  at  Foleys,  back  of  the  town,  purchased  fif- 
teen years  ago  when  people  thought  the  little  camp 
was  to  be  the  mining  center  of  the  region.  Now, 
after  he  had  been  regularly  paying  his  taxes,  and 
hearing  that  the  place  annually  grew  smaller  and 
deader,  a  mineral  spring  had  been  discovered  on  his 
land.  It  was  a  good  thing  that  something  had  been 
discovered  there.  The  hopes  of  Foleys  had  vanished 
soon  after  he  had  come  into  possession  of  the  tract. 
His  efforts  to  sell  it  had  been  unsuccessful.  Some 
years  ago — the  last  time  he  was  up  there — you 
couldn't  get  people  to  take  land  near  Foleys,  short 
of  giving  it  to  them.  But  a  mineral  spring  was  a 
very  different  matter. 

As  Kit  Carson  bore  him  swiftly  onward  he  re- 
viewed the  idea  of  his  new  investment  with  increas- 
ing enthusiasm.  If  the  spring  was  all  they  said  it 
was,  he  would  build  a  hotel  near  it,  and  transform 
the  beautiful,  unknown  locality  into  a  summer  resort. 
There  was  an  ideal  situation  for  a  hotel,  where  the 
land  swept  upward  into  a  sort  of  natural  terrace 
crested  with  enormous  pines.  Here  the  house  would 
be  built,  and  from  its  front  piazza  guests  rocking  in 
shaker  chairs  could  look  over  miles  of  hills  and  wood- 
ed canons,  and  far  away  on  clear  days  could  see 
the  mother-of-pearl  expanse  of  the  Sacramento  Valley. 


THE  SQUATTER  9 

A  few  years  ago  the  plan  would  have  been  impos- 
sibk.  But  now,  with  the  railroad  climbing  over  the 
Sierra,  it  would  be  quite  feasible  to  run  a  line  of 
stages  from  Sacramento;  or,  possibly,  Auburn  would 
be  shorter.  There  was  even  a  hope  in  the  back  of 
the  Colonel's  mind  that  the  railway  might  be  induced 
to  fling  forth  a  spur  as  far  as  Placerville.  The  Col- 
onel had  friendships  in  high  places.  Things  that 
ordinary  mortals  who  were  not  rich,  unattached  pio- 
neers, could  not  aspire  to,  were  entirely  possible  for 
Colonel  James  Parrish. 

But — here  came  in  the  "but"  which  upsets  the 
best  laid  plans.  At  this  point  the  squatter  had  loomed 
up. 

The  Colonel  had  hardly  believed  in  the  squatter 
at  first.  His  claims  were  so  preposterous.  He  had 
come  shortly  after  Parrish's  last  visit,  nearly  four 
years  ago,  and  had  taken  up  his  residence  in  the 
half -ruined  cottage  which  had  been  built  on  the  land 
in  those  days  when  people  had  thought  Foleys  was 
going  to  be  a  great  mining  center.  When  Cusack, 
the  drowsy  lawyer  who  "attended  to  Colonel  Par- 
rish's business  interests  in  Foleys,"  as  he  expressed 
it,  let  his  client  know  there  was  a  squatter — a  mar- 
ried man  with  two  children — on  the  land,  the  Colo- 
nel's reply  had  been  "let  him  squat."  And  so  the 
matter  had  rested. 

Now,  when  the  Colonel  wanted  to  take  posses- 
sion of  his  own,  build  his  hotel  and  develop  his 
mineral  spring,  he  had  received  the  intelligence  that 
the  squatter  refused  to  go — that  in  fact  he  claimed  the 


io  THE  PIONEER 

land  on  a  three  and  a  half  years'  tenancy  undisturbed 
by  notice  to  leave,  and  on  various  and  sundry  "im- 
provements" he  had  made. 

It  took  the  Colonel's  breath  away.  That  little  clause 
in  the  lawyer's  letter  about  the  wife  and  children  had 
induced  him  to  give  his  permission  for  the  squatter 
to  occupy  his  cottage.  Having  no  wife  or  child  of 
his  own,  he  had  a  secret  feeling  of  friendliness  to  all 
men,  who,  even  in  poverty  and  unsuccess,  had  tasted 
of  this  supreme  happiness.  And  he  had  let  the  man 
remain  there,  undisturbed,  throughout  the  three  and 
a  half  years,  had  forgotten  him — in  fact,  did  not  even 
know  his  name. 

And  then  to  be  suddenly  faced  by  the  amazing  in- 
solence of  the  claim !  He  with  his  flawless  title,  his 
record  of  scrupulously  paid  taxes!  He  wrote  to  the 
Foleys  lawyer,  as  to  what  "the  improvements"  were, 
and  received  the  reply  that  they  consisted  in  "a  gar- 
den planted  out  and  tended  by  the  squatter's  daugh- 
ters, and  a  bit  of  vineyard  land  that  the  girls  had 
pruned  and  cultivated  into  bearing  condition.  There 
were  repairs  on  the  house,  mending  the  roof  and  the 
porch  which  was  falling  down.  Allen  had  made  these 
himself." 

Allen!  It  was  the  first  time  Colonel  Parrish  had 
heard  the  squatter's  name.  It  sent  a  gush  of  painful 
memories  out  from  his  heart,  and  for  a  space  he 
sat  silent  with  drooped  head.  Why  was  not  the  world 
wide  enough  for  him,  and  all  who  bore  this  name,  to 
pass  one  another  without  encounter! 

Now,  as  he  rode  on  the  last  stage  of  his  journey, 
and  over  the  hilltops  saw  the  smoke  of  the  Foleys 


THE  SQUATTER  11 

chimneys,  his  mind  had  once  again  fallen  on  the  squat- 
ter's name.  Strange  coincidence  that  after  twenty- 
one  years  this  name — a  common  one — should  rise  up 
uncomfortably  in  his  path.  He  smiled  bitterly  to 
himself.  Fate  played  strange  tricks,  and  he  felt, 
with  a  sense  of  shamed  meanness,  that  he  would 
have  regarded  the  squatter  with  more  leniency  if 
he  had  borne  any  other  name  than  Allen. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  GRACEY  BOYS 

The  smell  of  wood  smoke  and  supper  was  in  the 
air  as  the  Colonel  rode  down  the  main  street  of 
Foleys.  Under  the  projecting  roof  that  jutted  from 
the  second  story  windows  and  made  a  species  of  rude 
arcade,  men  were  sitting  in  the  negligee  of  shirt 
sleeves,  smoking  and  spitting  in  the  cool  of  the  even- 
ing. They  hailed  the  new-comer  with  a  word  of 
greeting  or  a  hand  raised  in  salute  to  the  side  of  a 
head  where  a  hat  brim  should  have  been. 

The  Colonel  returned  the  salutations,  and  as  Kit 
Carson  paced  through  the  red  dust  to  where  the 
drooping  fringe  of  locust  trees  hid  the  fagade  of 
the  hotel,  looked  curiously  about  him,  noticing  a 
slight  stir  of  life,  an  appearance  of  reviving  vital- 
ity in  the  once  moribund  camp.  Foleys  was  not 
as  dead  as  it  had  been  four  years  ago.  Fewer  of 
the  shop  doors  were  boarded  up;  there  were  even 
new  stores  open. 

He  was  speculating  on  this  when  he  threw  himself 
off  his  horse  in  front  of  the  hotel.  The  loungers 
on  the  piazza,  dustered  and  shirt-sleeved  men,  let 
their  tilted  chairs  drop  to  the  front  legs,  and  rose 
co  greet  him  to  a  man.  Anybody  was  an  acquisi- 
12 


THE  GRACEY  BOYS  13 

tion  at  Foleys,  but  Colonel  Jim  Parrish,  with  the 
rumor  of  bringing  a  lawsuit  into  their  midst,  was 
welcomed  as  the  harbinger  of  a  new  era. 

They  were  all  around  him  shaking  hands  when  For- 
sythe,  the  proprietor,  armed  with  a  large  feather  dus- 
ter, emerged  from  the  front  door.  He  cut  the  new 
arrival  out  from  their  midst  and  drew  him  into  the 
hall.  Here,  dusting  him  vigorously,  he  shouted  to 
Mrs.  Forsythe  to  prepare  a  room,  and  between 
sweeps  of  the  duster,  inquired  of  him  on  the  burn- 
ing question  of  the  squatter. 

"Come  to  fire  old  man  Allen,  eh?"  he  queried. 
"Got  your  work  cut  out  for  you  with  him." 

"He'll  find  he's  barked  up  the  wrong  tree  this  time," 
said  the  Colonel  grimly,  "bringing  me  up  from  San 
Francisco  on  such  a  fool's  errand." 

"It's  about  the  galliest  proposition  I've  ever  heard. 
But  he's  that  kind,  drunk  a  lot  of  the  time,  and  the 
rest  of  it  tellin'  the  boys  round  here  what  a  great 
man  he  used  to  be.  He  was  glad  enough  to  get 
twenty-five  dollars  a  month  holdin'  down  a  small  job 
in  the  assay  office." 

At  this  moment  a  door  to  the  right  opened,  yielding 
a  glimpse  of  a  large  bare  dining-room  set  forth  with 
neatly  laid  tables  and  decorated  with  hanging  strands 
of  colored  paper. 

"Say,"  said  a  female  voice,  "ain't  that  Colonel  Jim 
Parrish  that  just  come  down  the  street?" 

"That's  just  who  it  is,"  answered  the  Colonel,  "and 
isn't  that  Mitty  Bruce's  voice?" 

This  question  called  to  the  doorway  a  female 
vision  in  brilliant  pink  calico.  It  was  a  buxom,  high- 


i4  THE  PIONEER 

colored  country  girl  of  some  twenty-one  years,  coarse 
featured  but  not  uncomely,  her  face  almost  as  pink 
as  her  dress,  her  figure  of  the  mature  proportions 
of  the  early-ripening  Californian. 

"Well,  well,  is  this  Mitty?"  said  the  new-comer, 
holding  out  his  hand.  "You  have  to  come  up  to  the 
foot-hills  to  see  a  handsome  girl.  I'd  never  have  known 
you,  you've  grown  up  so  and  got  so  good  looking." 

Mitty  sidled  up  giggling  and  placed  a  big,  red  paw 
in  his. 

"Oh,  get  out!"  she  said,  "ain't  you  just  awful!" 

"I  won't  get  out  and  I'm  not  a  bit  awful.  You've 
got  to  take  care  of  me  at  supper  and  tell  me  every- 
thing that's  happened  in  Foleys  since  I  was  here 
last." 

"Let  her  alone  to  do  that,"  said  Forsythe.  "There 
ain't  anything  that  goes  on  in  Eldorado  and  Amador 
Counties  that  Mitty  don't  know.  She's  the  best  news- 
paper we  got  round  here." 

Mrs.  Forsythe  here  put  her  head  over  the  stair- 
rail  and  informed  the  Colonel  that  his  room  was 
ready.  He  ran  up  stairs  to  "wash  up"  while  the 
other  two  repaired  to  the  dining-room. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  reappeared  and  entered 
the  low-ceilinged  room  that  smelled  of  fresh  paint 
and  cooking.  It  was  past  the  supper  hour  at  Foleys 
and  only  a  few  men  lingered  over  the  end  of  their 
meal.  By  a  table  at  the  window,  cleanly  spread  and 
set,  Mitty  was  standing.  When  she  saw  him  she 
pulled  out  a  chair  and,  with  its  back  resting  against 
her  waist,  pointed  to  the  seat. 


THE  GRACEY  BOYS  15 

"Set  right  down  here,"  she  said,  "everything's 
ready  for  you." 

Then  as  he  obeyed  she  pushed  him  in,  saying  over 
his  shoulder: 

"It's  real  nice  to  see  you  again,  Colonel.  It  seems 
awful  long  since  you  was  here  last." 

The  Colonel  looked  up  at  her  with  an  eye  of  twink- 
ling friendliness.  She  was  gazing  at  him  with  child- 
ish pleasure  and  affection.  He  had  known  Mitty 
since  her  tenth  year  when  Forsythe  and  his  wife  had 
adopted  her,  the  only  child  of  a  dying  woman  whose 
husband  had  been  killed  in  a  mine. 

"Good  girl,  Mit,"  he  said.  "Have  you  got  all  the 
gossip  of  the  last  four  years  saved  up  for  me?" 

"I  guess  I  can  tell  you  as  much  as  most,"  she  an- 
swered, not  without  pride,  and  then  flourished  off 
to  the  hole  in  the  dining-room  which  communicated 
with  the  kitchen. 

When  she  had  set  his  supper  before  him  she  sat 
down  opposite,  her  elbows  on  the  table,  comfortably 
settled  for  the  gossip  the  traveler  had  requested. 

"Foleys  seems  to  be  livening  up,"  he  said.  "I 
noticed  several  new  stores.  What's  happening?" 

"Foleys!"  exclaimed  Mitty,  with  the  Californian's 
loyalty  to  his  native  burg,  "Foleys  is  the  liveliest 
town  along  the  mother  lode.  There  ain't  nothing 
the  matter  with  Foleys!  It's  the  Gracey  boys'  strike 
up  at  the  Buckeye  Belle  mine  that's  whooping  things 
up." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  of  course,"  said  the  Colonel.  "They 
say  the  Gracey  boys  have  really  struck  it  this  time. 


16  THE  PIONEER 

I  heard  some  talk  of  it  before  I  came  up.    The  report 
down  below  was  that  it  was  a  pretty  good  thing." 

"You  bet,"  said  the  young  woman  with  a  knowing 
air.  "Nearly  a  year  ago  one  of  the  gentlemen  con- 
nected with  it  said  to  me,  'We've  got  a  mine  there; 
bed-rock's  pitchin'  and  there's  two  bits  to  the  pan.' 
So  I  wasn't  surprised  when  I  heard  they'd  struck 
it.  They're  goin'  to  build  a  twenty-stamp  mill  next 
thing  you  know." 

"Good  for  them!"  said  the  Colonel.  "The  Gracey 
boys  have  been  mining  for  years  all  over  this  coun- 
try and  in  Mexico  and  Nevada,  and  this  is  the  first 
good  thing  they've  got.  How  far  is  it  from  here?" 

"About  twelve  miles  up  in  that  direction — "  she 
gave  a  jerk  of  her  hand  to  the  right — "up  on  the  other 
side  of  the  South  Fork.  They  have  to  come  here 
for  everything.  Barney  Sullivan,  the  superintendent, 
does  most  of  their  buying." 

She  looked  at  the  Colonel  with  a  wide-eyed,  stolid 
gaze  as  she  gave  this  insignificant  piece  of  informa- 
tion. The  look  suggested  to  her  vis-a-vis  that  the 
information  was  not  insignificant  to  her. 

"Barney  Sullivan,"  he  said,  "I  remember  him. 
He's  been  with  them  for  some  years,  was  in  Virginia 
City  when  they  were  there.  He's  a  good-looking 
fellow  with  red  hair." 

"Good-lookin',  did  you  say?"  exclaimed  Mitty,  in 
a  high  key  of  scornful  disbelief.  "Well,  that's  more'n 
I  can  see.  Just  a  red-headed  Irish  tarrier,  with  the 
freckles  on  him  as  big  as  dimes.  It's  a  good  thing 
all  the  world  don't  like  the  same  kind  of  face." 


THE  GRACEY  BOYS  17 

Her  scorn  was  tinctured  with  the  complacence  of 
one  who  knows  herself  exempt  from  similar  charges. 
Mitty,  secure  in  the  knowledge  that  her  own  patro- 
nymic was  Bruce,  affected  a  high  disdain  of  the  Irish. 
She  also  possessed  a  natural  pride  on  the  score  of 
her  Christian  name,  which  in  its  unique  unabbre- 
viated completeness,  was  Summit,  in  commemoration 
of  the  fact  that  upon  that  lofty  elevation  of  the  Sierra 
she  had  first  seen  the  light. 

"You'll  be  able  to  see  all  the  Buckeye  Belle  crowd 
to-night,"  she  continued;  "they'll  be  in  now  any  time. 
There's  going  to  be  a  party  here." 

The  Colonel  looked  up  from  his  plate  with  the 
thrust-out  lips  and  raised  brows  of  inquiring  as- 
tonishment. 

"The  devil  you  say!"  he  ejaculated.  "I  arrived 
just  at  the  right  moment,  didn't  I?  I  suppose  I'll 
have  to  stand  round  looking  at  the  men  knifing  each 
other  for  a  chance  to  dance  with  Miss  Mitty  Bruce." 

Mitty  wriggled  with  delight  and  grew  as  pink  as 
her  dress. 

"Well,  not  quite's  bad  as  that,"  she  said  with  brid- 
ling modesty,  "but  I  can  have  my  pick." 

Her  friend  had  finished  the  first  part  of  his  sup- 
per, and  placing  his  knife  and  fork  together,  leaned 
back,  looking  at  her  and  smiling  to  himself.  She 
saw  the  empty  plate,  and  rising,  bent  across  the  table 
and  swept  it  and  the  other  dishes  on  to  her  tray 
with  an  air  of  professional  expertness.  As  she  came 
back  with  the  dessert  the  last  diner  thumped  across 
the  wooden  floor  in  noisy  exit. 


i8  THE  PIONEER 

The  plate  that  she  set  before  the  Colonel  displayed 
a  large  slab  of  pie.  A  breakfast  cup  of  coffee  went 
with  it.  He  looked  at  them  with  an  undismayed  eye, 
remarking : 

"Who's  coming  to  the  party?  I'll  bet  a  new  hat 
Barney  Sullivan  will  be  here — the  first  man  on  deck, 
and  the  last  to  quit  the  pumps.  But  I  don't  suppose 
the  Gracey  boys  will  show  up." 

"Yes,  they  will — both  of  'em." 

"What,  Black  Dan?  Black  Dan  Gracey  doesn't 
go  to  parties." 

"Well,  he  don't  generally.  But  he's  goin'  to  this 
one.  His  daughter,  Mercedes,  is  here,  that  sort  er 
spidery  Spanish  girl,  and  he's  goin'  for  her." 

Mitty,  having  seen  that  her  guest  had  all  that  in 
Foleys  made  up  the  last  course  of  a  complete  and 
satisfactory  supper,  went  round  and  took  her  seat 
at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table.  As  she  spoke  he 
noticed  a  change  in  her  voice.  Now,  as  he  saw  her 
face,  he  noticed  a  change  in  it,  too.  There  was  a 
withdrawal  of  joy  and  sparkle.  She  looked  sullen, 
almost  mournful. 

"Black  Dan  Gracey's  daughter  here?"  he  queried. 
"What's  she  doing  so  far  afield?  The  last  I  heard 
of  her  she  was  in  school  in  San  Francisco." 

"So  she  was  until  two  days  ago.  Then  some  kind  er 
sickness  broke  out  in  the  school,  and  her  paw  went 
down  to  bring  her  up  here.  She  was  so  precious 
she  couldn't  come  up  from  San  Francisco  alone.  She 
had  to  be  brung  all  the  way  like  she  was  made  of 
gold  and  people  was  tryin'  to  steal  her.  They  stopped 
here  for  dinner  on  their  way  up.  I  seen  her." 


THE  GRACEY  BOYS  19 

"She  promises  to  be  very  pretty,"  said  the  Colonel 
absently.  "They  say  Gracey  worships  her." 

"Pretty!"  echoed  Mitty  in  a  very  flat  voice.  "I 
don't  see  what  makes  her  so  dreadful  pretty.  Little 
black  thing!  And  anybody 'd  be  pretty  all  togged 
up  that  way.  She'd  diamond  ear-rings  on,  real  ones, 
big  diamonds  like  that." 

She  held  out  the  tip  of  her  little  finger,  nipped 
between  her  third  and  thumb. 

"I  guess  that  makes  a  difference,"  she  said  em- 
phatically, looking  at  him  with  a  pair  of  eyes  which 
tried  to  be  defiant,  but  were  really  full  of  forlorn 
appeal. 

"Of  coiirse  it  makes  a  difference,"  said  the  Colo- 
nel cheeringly,  without  knowing  in  the  least  what  he 
meant,  "a  great  difference." 

"They  was  all  staring  at  her  here  at  dinner.  There 
was  four  men  in  the  kitchen  trying  to  get  a  squint 
through  the  door,  until  the  Chinaman  threw  'em 
out.  And  she  knew  jest  as  well  as  any  one,  and 
liked  it.  But  you  oughter  have  seen  her  pretend  she 
didn't  notice  it.  Jest  eat  her  dinner  sort  er  slow  and 
careless  as  if  they  was  no  one  round  more  important 
than  a  yaller  dog.  Only  now  and  then  she'd  throw  back 
her  head  so's  her  curls  'ud  fall  back  and  the  diamond 
ear-rings  'ud  show.  I  said  to  paw  flat-footed,  'Go 
and  wait  on  her  yourself,  since  you  think  she's  so 
dreadful  handsome.  I  don't  do  no  waiting  on  that 
stuck-up  thing.' " 

Mitty  turned  away  to  the  window.  Her  recital  of 
the  sensation  created  by  the  proud  Miss  Gracey 
seemed  to  affect  her.  There  was  a  tremulous  un- 


20  THE  PIONEER 

demote  in  her  voice;  her  bosom,  under  its  tight- 
drawn  pink  calico  covering,  heaved  as  if  she  were 
about  to  weep. 

The  Colonel  noted  with  surprise  these  signs  of 
storm,  and  was  wondering  what  would  be  best  to 
say  to  divert  the  conversation  into  less  disturbing 
channels,  when  Mitty,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
craned  her  neck  and  evidently  followed  with  her  eyes 
a  passing  figure. 

"There  goes  June  Allen,"  she  said;  "don't  she  look 
shabby  ?" 

The  name  caused  the  Colonel  to  stop  eating.  He 
raised  his  eyes  to  his  companion.  She  was  looking 
at  him  with  reviving  animation  in  her  glance. 

"That's  the  daughter  of  old  man  Allen  what's 
squatted  on  your  land,"  she  explained.  "You  ain't 
ever  seen  the  girls,  have  you?" 

The  Colonel,  who  had  finished,  laid  his  napkin  on 
the  table. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "are  they  children?" 

"Children!"  echoed  Mitty,  "I  guess  not.  June's 
twenty  and  Rosamund's  nineteen.  I  know  'em  real 
well.  They're  friends  of  mine." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows,  surprised  and  relieved  at 
the  information.  It  would  be  less  hard  to  oust  the 
squatter  if  his  children  were  of  this  age  than  if  they 
were  helpless  infants. 

"What  sort  of  girls  are  they?"  he  asked. 

"Oh  they're  real  lovely  girls.  And  they've  got  a 
wonderful  education.  They  know  lots.  They're 
learned.  Their  mother  learned  it  to  them — " 


THE  GRACEY  BOYS  21 

Mitty  stopped,  a  sound  outside  striking  her  ear. 
The  Colonel  was  looking  at  her  with  quizzical  inquiry. 
The  picture  of  the  squatter's  children,  as  educated, 
much  less  "learned,"  filled  him  with  amused  astonish- 
ment. He  was  just  about  to  ask  his  informant  for 
a  fuller  explanation,  when  she  rose  to  her  feet,  her 
face  suffused  with  color,  her  eyes  fastened  in  a  sud- 
den concentration  of  attention  on  something  outside 
the  window. 

"Here  they  are,"  she  said  in  a  low,  hurried  voice. 
"Get  up  and  look  at  them." 

He  obeyed,  not  knowing  whom  she  meant.  In  the 
bright  light  of  the  after-glow  he  saw  four  figures 
on  horseback — three  men  and  a  girl — approaching 
down  the  deserted  street.  Behind  them  a  pack  burro, 
his  back  laden  with  bags  and  valises,  plodded  meekly 
through  the  dust.  The  Colonel  recognized  the  men 
as  the  Gracey  brothers  and  their  superintendent,  Bar- 
ney Sullivan.  The  girl  he  had  not  seen  for  a  year 
or  two,  and  she  was  at  the  age  when  a  year  or  two 
makes  vast  changes.  He  knew,  however,  that  she 
was  Black  Dan  Gracey's  daughter,  Mercedes,  who 
was  expected  at  the  dance. 

The  cavalcade  came  to  a  stop  outside  the  window. 
From  the  piazza  the  front  legs  of  the  loungers'  chairs 
striking  the  floor  produced  a  series  of  thuds,  and  the 
thuds  were  followed  by  a  series  of  hails  such  as  had 
greeted  the  Colonel.  But  the  loungers  made  no  at- 
tempt to  go  forward,  as  they  had  done  in  his  case. 
An  access  of  bashfulness  in  the  presence  of  beauty 
held  them  sheepishly  spellbound.  It  remained  for 


22  THE  PIONEER 

Forsythe  to  dash  out  with  his  duster  and  welcome  the 
new  arrivals  with  the  effusion  of  a  mining  camp 
Boniface. 

The  Colonel,  unseen,  looked  at  them  with  perhaps 
not  as  avid  a  curiosity  as  Mitty,  but  with  undisguised 
interest.  He  had  long  known  the  Gracey  boys,  as 
they  were  called,  though  Dan  was  forty-three  and 
Rion  twelve  years  younger.  He  had  often  heard  of 
their  mining  vicissitudes,  not  only  from  men  similarly 
engaged,  but  from  themselves  on  their  occasional  vis- 
its to  San  Francisco.  The  society  of  that  city  had  not 
yet  expanded  to  the  size  when  it  fell  apart  into  sepa- 
rate sets.  Its  members  not  only  had  a  bowing  acquain- 
tance, but  were,  for  the  most  part,  intimate.  The 
Gracey  boys  had,  as  the  newspapers  say,  "the  entree 
everywhere,"  though  they  did  not,  it  is  true,  profit 
by  it  to  the  extent  that  San  Francisco  would  have 
liked. 

They  were  not  only  educated  men,  who  had  come 
from  Michigan  in  their  boyhood,  but  Black  Dan  Gra- 
cey was  a  figure  distinguished — at  any  rate,  to  the 
feminine  imagination — by  an  unusual  flavor  of  ro- 
mance. Seventeen  years  before  the  present  date  he 
had  met,  while  mining  in  Mexico,  a  young  Spanish 
girl  of  fourteen,  had  fallen  madly  in  love  with  her, 
and  when  her  parents  placed  her  in  a  convent 
to  remove  her  for  ever  from  the  hated  Gringo,  with 
six  of  his  men,  had  broken  into  the  convent  and  car- 
ried her  off. 

It  was  part  of  the  romance  that  a  year  later  his 
child-wife,  as  passionately  loving  as  he,  should  have 
died,  leaving  him  a  baby.  It  was  said  that  Black 


THE  GRACEY  BOYS  23 

Dan  Gracey  had  never  recovered  this  sudden  sev- 
ering of  the  dearest  tie  of  his  life.  He  certainly  was 
proof  against  the  wiles  that  many  sirens  in  San  Fran- 
cisco and  elsewhere  had  displayed  for  his  subjuga- 
tion. It  was  after  this,  anyway,  that  the  adjective 
Black  had  been  prefixed  to  his  name.  Most  people 
said  it  had  arisen  because  of  his  swarthy  coloring — he 
was  of  an  almost  Indian  darkness  of  tint — but  there 
were  those  who  declared  it  was  a  tribute  to  his  moody 
taciturnity,  for  Black  Dan  Gracey  was  a  man  of  few 
words  and  rare  smiles. 

Now,  standing  in  the  brilliant  evening  light,  the 
watcher  could  not  but  be  impressed  by  the  appear- 
ance of  the  two  brothers.  A  fine  pair  of  men,  the 
Gracey  boys,  muscular,  broad-shouldered,  and  tall ; 
out-door  men  whose  eyes  were  far-seeing  and  quiet, 
who  felt  cramped  in  cities,  and  returned  from  them 
with  a  freshened  zest  to  the  stream-bed  and  the  canon. 
Rion  was  obviously  many  years  his  brother's  junior. 
He  was  a  more  normal-looking  person,  not  so  darkly 
bearded  and  heavily  browed,  more  full  of  the  joys 
and  interests  of  life. 

As  he  slid  from  his  saddle  to  the  ground  he  was 
laughing,  while  his  elder,  the  lower  part  of  his  face 
clothed  in  a  piratical  growth  of  black  hair,  lowered 
somberly  from  under  a  gray  sombrero.  In  their 
rough  and  dust-grimed  clothes,  they  still  showed  the 
indefinable  air  of  the  well-born  and  educated  man, 
which  curiously  distinguished  them  from  Barney  Sul- 
livan, their  companion.  Barney  was  as  tall  and  well 
set  up  as  either  of  them,  but  beyond  a  doubt  he  was 
what  Mitty  had  called  a  "tarrier,"  in  other  words  an 


24  THE  PIONEER 

Irish  laborer.  He,  too,  was  laughing,  a  laugh  that 
showed  strong  white  teeth  under  a  short  red  mus- 
tache. His  hat,  pushed  back  from  his  forehead,  re- 
vealed the  same  colored  hair,  thick  and  wiry.  He 
had  a  broad,  turned-up  nose,  plenteously  freckled  as 
were  his  hands,  raised  now  to  assist  Miss  Gracey 
from  her  horse. 

Upon  the  one  feminine  member  of  the  party  the 
Colonel's  eyes  had  been  fixed,  as  were  those  of  every 
man  in  the  vicinity.  He  calculated  that  she  was 
nearly  sixteen.  For  a  girl  with  Spanish  blood  that 
would  mean  a  young  woman,  full-grown  and  mar- 
riageable. She  still,  however,  retained  a  look  of 
childhood  that  was  extremely  charming,  and  in  some 
vague,  indistinct  way,  pathetic,  he  thought.  Perhaps 
the  pathos  lay  in  the  fact  that  she  had  never  had 
a  mother,  and  that  the  best  care  an  adoring  father 
could  lavish  upon  her  was  to  hire  expensive  nurses 
in  her  childhood,  and  send  her  to  still  more  expen- 
sive boarding-schools  when  she  grew  older. 

She  was  undoubtedly  fulfilling  the  promise  she  had 
always  given  of  being  pretty.  She  sat  sidewise  on 
her  saddle,  looking  down  at  Barney's  raised  hands. 
Her  hair,  which  was  as  black  as  her  father's,  was  ar- 
ranged in  loosely  flowing  curls  that  fell  over  her 
shoulders  and  brushed  her  chest.  In  this  position, 
her  chin  down,  her  eyelashes  on  her  cheeks,  her  lips 
curved  in  a  slow,  coquettish  smile,  she  presented  a 
truly  bewitching  appearance.  Under  her  childish  de- 
meanor, the  woman,  conscious  of  unusual  charms, 
was  already  awake.  The  Colonel  felt  as  Mitty  had, 
that  though  her  entire  attention  seemed  concentra- 


THE  GRACEY  BOYS  25 

ted  on  Barney,  she  was  acutely  aware  of  the  staring 
men  on  the  piazza.,  and  was  rejoicing  in  their  bash- 
ful admiration.  He  could  not  help  smiling,  her  in- 
difference was  so  coolly  complete.  His  smile  died 
when  he  felt  Mitty  give  him  a  vicious  dig  in  the 
back. 

"Did  you  see  the  ear-rings?"  she  said  in  a  hissing 
undertone. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  did." 

"Do  you  suppose  they're  real  diamonds?" 

"Why,  of  course.  Black  Dan  wouldn't  give  his 
daughter  anything  else." 

Mitty  gave  forth  a  sound  that  seemed  a  cross 
between  a  snort  and  a  groan. 

"And  a  pack  burro!"  she  exclaimed  with  fuming 
scorn.  "Did  you  get  on  to  the  pack  burro,  all  loaded 
up  with  bags  ?  She  has  to  have  her  party  rig  brought 
along  on  a  pack  burro !" 

"Well,  what's  wrong  with  that?"  he  said  sooth- 
ingly. "She  couldn't  go  to  the  party  in  her  riding 
habit  all  grimed  up  with  dust.  Nobody  ever  saw  a 
girl  at  a  party  in  a  riding  habit." 

"Well,  the  Phillips  girl  can  go  all  right  in  a  pink 
flannel  skirt  and  miners'  boots,"  declared  his  com- 
panion with  combative  heat,  overlooking  the  fact 
that  the  festal  array  of  the  Phillips  girl  had  been  a 
subject  of  her  special  derision.  "I  guess  she  don't 
have  to  have  a  pack  burro  to  carry  her  duds." 

The  Colonel  realized  that  the  moment  for  gentle 
reasoning  was  over.  Only  the  girl's  burning  curios- 
ity kept  down  the  wrathful  tears  evoked  by  a  newly 
stirred  jealousy.  When  she  saw  Black  Dan's  daugh- 


26  THE  PIONEER 

ter  slide  from  her  saddle  into  Barney  Sullivan's  arms, 
an  ejaculation  of  mingled  pain  and  rage  escaped  her 
that  had  a  note  of  suffering  in  it. 

The  Colonel,  in  his  time,  had  known  such  pangs, 
a  thousand  times  deeper  and  more  terrible  than  Mitty 
had  ever  experienced.  He  turned  to  her  smiling,  not 
teasingly,  but  almost  tenderly,  and  saw  her  face 
blighted  like  a  rose  dashed  by  rain,  pitiful  and  a  lit- 
tle ludicrous.  The  pitiful  side  of  it  was  all  that 
struck  him. 

"Did  you  see  how  mighty  easy  Barney  is  with 
her?"  she  stammered,  making  a  desperate  feminine 
attempt  to  speak  lightly. 

"A  gentleman  has  to  help  a  lady  off  her  horse;  he 
can't  let  her  climb  down  all  by  herself.  Barney's  not 
that  kind  of  a  chump.  You  run  along  now  and  get 
ready.  You  haven't  got  such  a  lot  of  time,  for  you've 
got  to  help  set  the  tables  for  supper.  And  don't  you 
fret.  I  just  feel  that  you're  going  to  look  as  nice 
as  any  girl  in  the  place.  That  dress  of  yours  is  going 
to  be  just  about  right.  Hurry  up!  Here  they  are." 

Mitty  heard  the  advancing  footfalls  in  the  passage 
and  the  sound  of  approaching  voices.  As  the  tail  of 
her  pink  calico  skirt  disappeared  through  the  kitchen 
door,  the  Gracey  party  entered  through  the  one  that 
led  to  the  office.  There  were  greetings  with  the  Colo- 
nel, and  he  sat  down  at  their  table  to  exchange  the 
latest  San  Francisco  gossip  with  the  mining  news  of 
the  district,  and  especially  to  hear  the  details  of  the 
strike  in  the  Buckeye  Belle. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  NAME  OF  ALLEN 

An  hour  later  as  the  Colonel  was  leaving  his  room, 
the  voices  of  Forsythe  and  a  new-comer  ascending  the 
stairs  struck  on  his  ear.  He  leaned  over  the  baluster 
and  looked  down  at  the  tops  of  their  approaching 
heads.  Forsythe's  bald  pate  was  followed  by  another, 
evidently  a  younger  one,  by  the  curly  brown  hair  that 
covered  it.  A  pair  of  shoulders  in  a  dusty  coat  was 
beneath  the  head,  and,  as  they  mounted,  the  Colonel 
heard  a  voice  of  that  cultured  intonation  which  the 
far  West  scornfully  regards  as  an  outgrowth  of  effete 
civilizations.  In  short,  the  owner  of  the  voice  spoke 
like  an  Easterner  who  has  had  a  college  education. 

The  Colonel,  if  he  was  doubtful  about  the  top  of 
the  head,  knew  the  voice  directly. 

"Jerry  Barclay,  by  thunder!"  he  exclaimed  over 
the  railing.  "What  the  devil  are  you  doing  up  here?" 

The  new-comer  started  and  lifted  a  handsome  face, 
which,  in  clean-cut  distinction  of  feature,  seemed  to 
match  the  voice.  He  cleared  the  last  steps  at  a  bound 
and  stretched  out  a  sinewy  brown  hand  to  the  older 
man.  There  was  something  delightfully  frank  and 
boyish  in  his  manner. 

"Well,  old  son,"  he  said,  "that  comes  well  from 
27 


28  THE  PIONEER 

you !  About  the  last  person  in  California  I  expected 
to  see  at  Foleys.  What's  up?" 

In  the  light  of  the  kerosene  lamps  which  illumined 
the  hallway  he  was  shown  to  be  some  thirty  years 
of  age,  tall,  slender,  upright,  with  upon  him  and 
about  him  that  indescribable  air  of  the  man  of  clubs 
and  cities.  His  loose  sack-coat  and  flannel  shirt  set 
upon  his  frame  with  a  suggestion  of  conscious  mas- 
querade. He  did  not  belong  to  the  present  rough  set- 
ting, albeit  he  was  so  easy  of  manner  and  movement 
that  it  could  not  be  said  of  him  he  was  awkwardly 
out  of  place  anywhere.  The  genial  frankness  of  his 
address  was  the  western  touch  about  him,  which 
made  him  acceptable  in  a  society  where  his  manner 
of  speeck  might  have  been  resented  as  a  personal 
reflection.  It  even  outweighed  the  impression  pro- 
duced by  the  seal  ring  he  wore.  That  it  was  not  the 
outward  and  visible  expression  of  a  mellow  friend- 
liness of  nature  did  not  matter.  What  did  matter 
was  that  it  made  life  much  simpler  and  more  agree- 
able for  Jerry  Barclay. 

"What  am  I  doing  up  here  ?"  he  said  in  answer  to  the 
older  man's  question.  "Looking  after  my  interests. 
What  else  would  bring  a  man  into  these  trails? 
There's  an  old  claim  of  my  father's  out  Thompson's 
Flat  way,  that  they've  been  getting  up  a  fairy  tale 
about.  Ever  since  the  Buckeye  Belle's  panned  out 
so  well  they  keep  inventing  yarns  down  below  that 
sound  like  forty-nine.  But  the  Buckeye  Bell  has 
made  a  strike,  Forsythe  tells  me." 

"The  Gracey  boys  are  here  to-night.     They'll  tell 


THE  NAME  OF  ALLEN  29 

you  all  about  it.     Black  Dan  won't  have  anything 
else  to  do." 

The  younger  man  pursed  his  lips  for  a  whistle  of 
surprise. 

"That's  luck,"  he  said.  "What's  Black  Dan  Gracey 
doing  in  a  center  of  civilization  like  this?" 

"Bringing  his  daughter  in  for  a  dance.  We've  got 
a  party  on  here  to-night.  Go  into  your  room  and 
primp  up  the  best  you  know  how.  Dancing  men  are 
short." 

The  young  man  laughed,  a  deep,  jolly  laugh. 

"Timed  it  just  right,  didn't  I?  Do  you  suppose 
the  belles  of  Foleys  will  take  me  this  way,  travel- 
stained  and  weary?  I'd  like  to  see  Black  Dan's 
daughter.  They  say  she  promises  to  be  a  beauty." 

"Promises}"  echoed  the  Colonel;  "she  kept  that 
promise  some  time  ago.  She's  sixteen  years  old,  my 
boy,  and  she  can  take  your  pelt  and  nail  it  to  the 
barn  door  whenever  she's  a  mind  to." 

The  other  turned  away  to  the  open  door  of  the 
room  Forsythe  had  lit  up  for  him. 

"Sixteen!"  he  said.  "Oh,  that's  too  young!  No, 
Colonel,  I've  not  got  to  the  age  when  sixteen  at- 
tracts. But  you  ought  to  be  just  about  there.  So 
long!  You'll  see  me  later  looking  on  at  your  gam- 
bols with  the  sixteen-year-older." 

His  boyish  laugh  issued  from  the  room,  and  as 
the  Colonel  went  down  stairs  he  could  hear  it  above 
the  swishing  of  water  and  the  sound  of  smitten 
crockery. 

From   below   the   first   tentative   whinings   of   the 


30  THE  PIONEER 

violins  rose,  and  as  he  reached  the  lower  hall  he 
heard  the  rattling  of  vehicles  and  the  sound  of  voices 
as  the  earlier  guests  began  to  arrive.  To  the  right 
of  the  hall  he  discovered  Black  Dan,  secluded  in  a 
small  room  reserved  by  Forsythe  for  honored  pa- 
trons, smoking  tranquilly  as  he  tilted  back  in  a 
wooden  arm-chair.  The  Colonel  joined  him,  and  for 
an  hour  the  smoke  of  their  cigars  mingled  amicably 
as  they  talked  over  the  mining  prospects  of  the  dis- 
trict, and  the  Colonel's  scheme  for  the  development 
of  his  mineral  spring. 

It  was  near  nine  and  the  dance  had  passed  its  initial 
stage  of  bashful  gaiety,  when  they  strolled  down  the 
balcony  to  where  the  windows  of  the  dining-room 
cast  elongated  squares  of  light  into  the  darkness. 
This  room,  built  on  the  angle  of  the  house,  had  a 
door  in  the  front,  flanked  by  two  windows,  and  down 
the  long  side  a  line  of  four  more  windows.  Before 
each  aperture  there  was  a  gathering  of  shadowy 
shapes,  the  light  gilding  staring  faces. 

At  the  first  window  the  two  men  stopped  and 
looked  in.  The  dining-room,  with  its  wooden  walls, 
low  ceiling  and  board  floor,  framed  like  an  echoing 
shell  the  simple  revel.  Its  bareness  had  been  deco- 
rated with  long  strands  of  colored  paper,  depending 
from  points  in  the  ceiling  and  caught  up  in  the 
corners.  At  intervals  along  the  walls  kerosene 
lamps,  backed  by  large  tin  reflectors,  diffused  a  raw, 
bright  light,  each  concave  tin  throwing  a  shadow 
like  a  stream  of  ink  down  the  boards  below  it.  In 
a  corner  the  three  musicians  worked  with  furious 


THE  NAME  OF  ALLEN  31 

energy,  one  blowing  a  cornet  and  two  scraping  vio- 
lins. A  square  dance  was  in  progress,  and  at  inter- 
vals the  man  who  played  the  larger  violin,  his  chin 
dug  pertinaciously  into  the  end  of  his  instrument, 
yelled  in  strident  tones: 

"Swing  your  pardners!  Ladies  to  the  right.  Shas- 
say  all." 

Black  Dan,  satisfied  by  the  first  glance  that  his 
daughter  was  provided  with  a  partner,  retraced  his 
steps  and  took  a  seat  at  the  deserted  end  of  the 
balcony,  whence  the  red  tip  of  his  cigar  came  and 
went  against  a  screen  of  darkness.  The  Colonel, 
much  interested,  remained  looking  in. 

It  was  an  innocently  spirited  scene,  every  partici- 
pant seeming  bent  on  exacting  his  full  share  of  en- 
joyment from  the  fleeting  hour.  There  were  girls 
who  had  driven  in  fifteen  and  twenty  miles  from 
the  camps  and  ranches  scattered  through  the  district, 
and  who,  flushed  and  excited,  were  bounding  through 
the  measure  with  an  energy  which  made  the  floor 
vibrate.  Their  partners,  also  drawn  from  a  radius 
of  twenty  miles  about  Foleys,  were  of  many  varieties, 
from  the  few  mining  superintendents  of  the  neigh- 
borhood to  some  of  the  underground  workers  on  the 
Buckeye  Belle. 

Mitty,  clad  in  maidenly  white  muslin  confined  by 
a  blue  sash,  was  evidently  much  in  demand.  Her 
dancing,  which  was  marked  by  a  romping  vigor, 
had  loosened  her  hair,  and  a  half-looped  brown  braid 
sent  a  scattering  of  hair-pins  along  the  floor.  Her 
partner,  the  proprietor  of  the  local  livery  stable,  was 


32  THE  PIONEER 

conducting  her  through  the  mazes  of  the  dance  with 
many  fancy  steps.  An  occasional  haughty  glance, 
a  loudly  defiant  quality  in  her  laugh,  and  the  pert 
air  with  which  she  flounced  through  the  figures, 
indicated  to  the  watcher  that  she  was  acutely  con- 
scious of  Barney  Sullivan,  leaning  against  the  wall 
opposite  and  eying  her  with  jealous,  hang-dog 
adoration. 

In  this  assemblage  of  rustic  beauty,  red,  over- 
heated, and  somewhat  blowsy,  Mercedes  Gracey 
looked  smaller,  finer  and  more  delicately  fin- 
ished than  she  had  in  the  afternoon  glow,  with 
nature  for  a  background.  That  she  should  be  par- 
ticipating with  obvious  pleasure  in  such  an  humble 
entertainment  did  not  surprise  the  Colonel,  used  to 
the  democratic  leveling  of  ranks  that  obtained  in 
foot-hill  California.  It  did  not  strike  him  as  any 
more  remarkable  than  that  she  should  be  enjoying 
the  society  of  Joe  Mosely,  who  kept  the  Sunset  Saloon 
at  Thompson's  Flat,  and  twenty  years  before,  in  the 
days  of  his  own  and  the  state's  uncontrolled  youth, 
had  "killed  his  man"  and  narrowly  escaped  lynch- 
ing in  Hangtown. 

The  watcher's  eye  left  her  with  reluctance,  for  a 
man  at  any  age,  even  with  a  heart  cold  to  the  appeal 
of  woman,  will  linger  on  the  spectacle  of  youthful 
beauty.  Then  his  glance  swept  the  wall  behind  her, 
where  the  opened  windows  were  filled  with  men's 
heads,  and  along  the  upper  end  of  which  a  bench 
ran.  On  this  bench  sat  a  young  woman,  alone,  her 
head,  in  profile  toward  him,  thrown  out  like  a  paint- 
ing against  the  wooden  background. 


THE  NAME  OF  ALLEN  33 

The  Colonel's  gaze  stopped  with  a  suddenness 
which  suggested  the  snapping  of  an  internal  spring. 
A  fixed,  rigid  gravity  of  observation  swept  all  humor 
from  his  face,  leaving  it  staring,  absorbed,  marked 
with  lines.  There  was  nothing  about  the  girl  to 
warrant  this  access  of  motionless  interest.  No  better 
proof  could  be  given  of  the  fact  that  she  was  not 
in  any  way  beautiful  or  pretty  than  that,  at  the 
very  height  of  the  dance,  she  was  evidently  part- 
nerless. 

Dejection  marked  her  attitude  and  the  youthful 
profile  which  she  presented  to  the  watcher.  Her 
body  had  settled  back  against  the  wall  in  a  pose  of 
apathetic  acquiescence,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  her 
small  feet,  which  her  short  skirt  revealed,  limply 
crossed.  Her  dress,  of  a  soft  yellowish  material, 
spotted  at  intervals  with  a  crimson  flower,  set  with 
some  degree  of  grace  and  accuracy  over  the  lines 
of  her  slightly  developed,  childish  figure.  Her  feet 
and  hands,  the  latter  showing  red  against  the  white 
forearm  that  her  half-sleeve  left  bare,  were  in  keep- 
ing with  the  air  of  fragile  smallness  which  seemed 
to  add  a  touch  of  extra  pathos  to  her  neglected 
condition.  She  did  not  look  like  the  country  girls 
about  her.  The  Colonel  noticed  that  her  hair  was 
cut  short  as  a  boy's.  Round  the  ear  and  temple  that 
he  could  see,  longer  hairs  curled  slightly. 

His  immovable  scrutiny  lasted  for  some  minutes. 
Then  he  threw  his  cigar  into  the  darkness,  and,  push- 
ing by  the  loungers  at  the  door,  entered  the  room 
and  threaded  his  way  through  the  dancers  to  where 
she  sat.  In  the  noise  about  her  she  did  not  hear 


34  THE  PIONEER 

his  approach  or  know  that  any  one  was  near,  till 
he  sat  clown  on  the  bench  beside  her  and  said, 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  dancing?" 

She  started  and  turned  a  face  upon  him,  the  sur- 
prise of  which  was  partly  dispersed  by  hope  of  cheer. 
It  was  a  charming  face,  if  not  a  pretty  one;  the 
skin  of  a  soft,  warm  pallor,  the  chin  pointed,  the 
mouth  small,  the  middle  of  the  upper  lip  drooping 
in  a  slight  point  on  the  lower.  Her  eyes  of  a  clear, 
greenish  brown,  showed  an  unusually  straight  line 
of  under  lid.  A  smile  born  of  relief  and  the  desire 
to  be  ingratiating  hovered  on  her  lips,  and  brought 
into  being  a  dimple  in  one  cheek. 

In  the  first  moment  of  encounter  the  Colonel 
saw  all  these  details.  The  profile  had  struck  him 
into  a  trance-like  fixity  of  observation.  Now  at  the 
full  face,  the  smile  with  which  he  had  accompanied 
his  words  died  away.  He  stared  at  her  for  a  mo- 
ment speechless  and  motionless.  And  then,  with  a 
muttered  ejaculation,  he  half  turned  from  her  and 
looked  at  the  dancers. 

The  girl  was  amazed,  for  she  had  never  seen  him 
before.  Her  hopes  of  a  partner  were  forgotten  in 
her  alarmed  surprise  at  the  demeanor  of  the  person 
she  thought  had  come  to  succor  her  in  a  dreary  hour. 
She  sat  looking  at  him,  wondering  what  to  say  and 
nervously  rolling  the  wad  of  handkerchief  she  held 
from  hand  to  hand. 

The  next  moment  he  had  turned  back  to  her,  com- 
manding his  features  into  the  conventional  smile  of 
young  acquaintance. 


THE  NAME  OF  ALLEN  35 

"I  must  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "for  speaking 
to  you  without  an  introduction,  but  I  thought  you'd 
let  an  old  fellow  like  me  come  over  here  and  have 
a  few  moments'  talk.  I  don't  dance,  you  see,  and 
so  I  was  having  a  pretty  lonely  time  out  there  on 
the  piazza." 

His  eyes  roamed  over  her  face,  their  eagerness 
of  inspection  curiously  at  variance  with  his  careless 
words.  Her  surprise  vanished  instantly;  she  turned 
herself  a  little  that  she  might  more  directly  face 
him.  She  was  evidently  delighted  to  have  any  com- 
panion. Looking  at  him,  she  smiled  with  pleased 
relief  and  said  in  a  singularly  sweet  voice, 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  came !  I've  been  sitting 
here  just  this  way  for  ever  so  long.  I  haven't  danced 
for  three  dances.  Joe  Mosely  asked  me  and  then 
nobody  has  since.  I  thought  I'd  go  home,  it  was 
so  lonesome." 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  marked  not  only  by  a 
natural  sweetness  of  tone,  but  by  a  refinement  of 
pronunciation  very  rare  among  the  inhabitants  of 
the  country  districts,  the  Colonel  was  again  thrown 
into  numbed,  staring  silence.  He  felt  that  he  should 
have  liked  to  rise  and  walk  back  and  forth  for  a  mo- 
ment and  shake  himself,  in  order  to  awake  from  the 
strange  and  poignant  memories  this  girl's  face  and 
voice  brought  up.  He  was  recalled  to  himself  by 
seeing  the  smile  slowly  freezing  on  her  lips,  and  the 
confidence  of  her  eyes  becoming  clouded  with  alarm. 

"The  child  will  think  I'm  mad,"  he  thought,  and 
said  aloud :  "You've  startled  me  and  I  guess  I've  done 


36  THE  PIONEER 

the  same  to  you.  But  you  look  very  like — extraor- 
dinarily like — some  one,  some  one,  I  6nce  knew." 

She  was  immediately  at  her  ease  again. 

"I  look  like  my  mother,"  she  said.  "Every  one 
says  that." 

"Where  is  your  mother?"  he  asked  absently,  sur- 
veying her  with  a  renewed,  wary  intentness. 

"Here,"  she  answered. 

"Here?"  he  queried,  looking  round  the  room — 
"where?" 

"Oh,  not  here  to-night" — she  looked  away  from  him 
and  gave  a  quick,  short  sigh — "home,  I  mean. 
Mother's  quite  sick.  Sometimes  I  think  she's  very 
sick." 

Her  face,  which  was  one  of  the  most  flexible  mo- 
bility, lost  all  its  brightness.  Her  eyes  looked  mourn- 
fully at  him,  pleading  for  a  contradiction. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  with  the  rush  of  pity  that  he 
felt  for  all  small  feeble  things,  especially  feminine 
feeble  things,  "she's  not  as  sick  as  you  think.  When 
you  live  with  a  person  who  is  sick  you're  apt  to 
think  them  worse  than  outsiders  do." 

"Well,  perhaps  so,"  she  acquiesced,  immediately 
showing  symptoms  of  brightening.  "It  probably 
seems  queer  to  you  that  I  should  be  here  to-night 
when  mother's  sick.  But  she  and  father  and  Rosa- 
mund insisted  on  my  coming.  They  wanted  me  to 
go  to  a  party  for  once  anyway,  and  have  a  good  time. 
But  I  haven't  had  a  good  time  at  all.  Just  before 
you  came  I  thought  I'd  go  home,  I  felt  so  miserable 
sitting  here  alone.  Only  two  people  have  asked  me 
to  dance." 


THE  NAME  OF  ALLEN  37 

"You've  not  been  in  Foleys  very  long?"  the 
Colonel  suggested,  in  order  to  account  for  this  strange 
lack  of  gallantry  on  the  part  of  the  country  swains. 

"Three  years ;  nearly  four  now,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  him  with  raised  eyebrows,  "Of  course,  I 
don't  know  as  many  people  as  Mitty  Bruce  does. 
And  then  there  are  some  of  the  men  round  here 
mother  never  liked  us  to  know.  They " 

She  paused,  evidently  considering  that  she  had 
better  not  reveal  the  reasons  why  she  had  been  cau- 
tioned against  certain  of  the  local  beaux.  But  her 
spirit  was  weak,  and  her  companion  not  making  any 
comment,  she  moved  a  little  nearer  to  him  on  the 
bench  and  said  in  a  lowered  key, 

"Some  of  them  occasionally  get  drunk!" 

"Occasionally,"  agreed  the  Colonel,  nodding  darkly. 

"So  I  don't  know  so  very  many.  But  I  thought 
I'd  know  enough  to  have  partners.  But  you  never 
can  tell.  And  then  my  hair  makes  me  look  such  a 
fright.  I  might  have  had  more  partners  if  it  had 
been  longer." 

She  passed  a  small  hand,  which  he  noticed  was 
rough  and  red,  over  her  cropped  crown,  ruffling  the 
short  locks  on  her  forehead. 

"How — how  did  it  come  to  be  so?"  he  asked,  look- 
ing at  it  with  admiration  tinged  with  curiosity. 

"I've  been  sick.  I  was  very  sick  last  winter  with 
a  fever,  and  so  in  April  when  I  was  getting  better 
they  cut  it  all  off.  We  had  a  bad  winter  up  here, 
it  was  so  terribly  wet.  I  never  saw  anything  worse ; 
our  house  leaked  all  over." 

"It  was  a  wet  winter,"  he  assented.    "And  I  heard 


38  THE  PIONEER 

it  was  a  good  deal  worse  up  here  than  it  was  down 
below." 

"It  was  dreadful.  The  rains  were  so  heavy  even 
in  March  that  a  big  piece  of  land  near  where  we 
live  slid  down.  Where  it  used  to  be  just  a  slope  it's 
now  like  a  precipice.  And  with  mother  sick  and  all 
the  trouble  to  keep  things  warm  and  dry,  I  got  the 
fever.  That's  why  they  made  me  come  to-night — • 
just  to  have  a  little  amusement,  mother  said,  because 
I'd  had  such  a  hard  winter.  And  we  made  this 
dress — "  she  touched  the  skirt  with  a  hand  that  be- 
trayed a  conscious  feminine  satisfaction  in  her  ap- 
parel— "it's  some  stuff  mother  had,  very  good  stuff. 
We  couldn't  have  afforded  to  buy  anything  like  it, 
and  I  don't  think  you  could  here  at  Foleys.  But  we 
did  spend  something.  These  flowers — "  she  indicated 
two  bunches  of  artificial  red  roses  at  her  neck  and 
belt — "we  bought  them.  They  were  a  dollar;  fifty 
cents  each  bunch." 

She  touched  the  bunch  at  her  waist  with  a  light, 
arranging  hand,  saw  something  which  made  her 
brows  contract  and  her  fingers  seize  on  the  flowers 
and  drag  them  hurriedly  away  from  their  resting 
place.  Where  they  had  been  a  red  stain — dye  from 
the  cheap  leaves — disfigured  her  dress. 

She  stared  at  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  looked 
up  at  the  Colonel  in  blank,  heart-stricken  dismay. 

"Why,  look  what  they've  done,"  she  faltered. 

The  Colonel  for  a  moment  was  nonplussed.  He 
had  no  consolation  for  such  a  catastrophe.  The 
girl  seized  her  handkerchief  and  rubbed  the  mark 


THE  NAME  OF  ALLEN  39 

with  dainty  energy.  The  red  dye  was  imparted  to 
the  handkerchief  but  the  stain  was  only  enlarged. 

"Mother's  dress!"  she  moaned,  rubbing  distract- 
edly. "Why,  she  kept  it  for  years  in  the  trunk,  wait- 
ing for  some  such  time  as  this  to  come.  And  now 
look  at  it!" 

She  raised  tragic  eyes  to  the  Colonel's  face.  He 
would  have  delighted  in  offering  her  another  dress — 
anything  she  had  chosen  to  buy.  But  she  was  a  lady 
and  this  he  could  not  do.  So  he  sat  looking  sympa- 
thetically at  her,  inwardly  swearing  at  the  social 
conventions  which  made  it  impossible  for  him  to 
repair  the  damage.  He  felt  a  man's  pity  for  the 
meanness  of  the  disaster  that  had  such  a  power  to 
darken  and  blight  one  poor  little  girl's  horizon. 

"Don't  rub  any  more,"  was  all  he  could  say,  "I'm 
afraid  it's  only  making  it  worse.  Maybe  your  mother 
will  know  of  some  way  of  cleaning  it." 

The  girl  made  no  reply  for  the  moment.  He  could 
see  that  the  mishap  had  completely  dashed  her  spirits. 
She  unpinned  the  other  bunch,  which  had  left  an 
even  uglier  mark  at  her  throat,  and  laid  them  down 
beside  her  on  the  bench. 

"What  an  unlucky  evening!"  she  exclaimed,  look- 
ing down  at  them  with  an  air  of  utter  dejection. 
"Only  two  people  ask  me  to  dance,  and  the  flowers 
we  paid  a  dollar  for  spoil  my  dress,  my  first  party 
dress.  And  they  all  wanted  me  to  come  because  I 
was  going  to  have  such  a  good  time!" 

She  looked  from  her  flowers  to  her  stained  dress, 
shaking  her  head  slowly  as  though  words  were  in- 


40  THE  PIONEER 

adequate  to  express  the  direness  of  the  catastrophe. 
The  Colonel  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  cry,  but 
she  showed  no  symptom  of  tears.  She  seemed  a 
strayed  member  of  the  class  which  is  taught  to  con- 
trol its  lachrymal  glands  in  public  and  keep  its  violent 
emotions  out  of  sight.  But  her  face  showed  a  dis- 
tress that  was  to  him  extremely  pitiful. 

"Cheer  up,"  he  said.  "As  far  as  the  dancing  goes 
the  evening's  only  half  over.  And  partners — you 
don't  want  to  dance  with  these  country  bumpkins." 

He  lowered  his  voice  at  the  words,  which  were 
indeed  rank  heresy  in  the  democratic  purlieus  of 
Foleys,  and  made  a  surreptitious  gesture  which  swept 
the  room. 

''Who  else  is  there?"  said  the  girl,  who  did  not 
show  any  tendency  to  combat  his  low  opinion  of 
Foleys'  jeunesse  doree.  "And  when  you  come  to  a 
party  you  expect  to  dance." 

"I'll  get  something  better  for  you  than  that,"  said 
the  Colonel,  rising.  "Wait  here  for  a  minute  or  two. 
I  won't  be  gone  long  and  I'll  bring  you  back  some- 
body worth  having  for  a  partner." 

She  smiled  faintly  at  him,  and  he  turned,  passed 
through  the  circling  whirl  of  dancers,  and  stepped 
out  on  the  balcony  again. 

By  an  adjacent  window  he  saw  two  masculine 
figures  and  smelt  the  pungent  odor  of  the  superior 
tobacco  with  which  they  were  beguiling  the  passing 
hour.  Rion  Gracey's  face,  gilded  by  the  light  of  the 
window,  was  toward  him.  The  well-shaped  back 
which  the  other  presented  to  his  gaze  he  recognized 
as  that  of  Jerry  Barclay.  He  bore  down  upon  them, 


THE  NAME  OF  ALLEN  41 

clapping  one  hand  upon  Barclay's  shoulder,  with  the 
words, 

"Look  here,  you  fellows,  I  want  partners  for  a 
girl  in  there." 

Gracey  frowned  and  said  demurringly, 

"Now,  Jim,  what's  the  use  of  coming  down  on  me? 
Don't  you  know  I'm  no  dancing  man?" 

The  other  answered, 

"Let's  see  the  girl  first.  Where  is  she?" — looking 
in  through  the  window — "the  one  over  there  in  pink? 
Oh,  we  don't  deserve  that.  What's  the  matter  with 
your  being  the  Good  Samaritan  and  dancing  with 
her  yourself?" 

"It's  not  the  one  in  pink,  and  you've  got  to  come. 
The  poor  little  thing  hasn't  had  but  two  partners  this 
evening  and  it's  most  broken  her  heart.  Here,  come 
along !  I'm  going  to  see  that  she  has  some  fun  before 
this  metropolitan  orgy  ends." 

Gracey  threw  away  his  cigar  with  a  suppressed 
groan  of  acquiescence.  The  other  man,  shaking  his 
coat  into  shape,  said, 

"Lead  on.  Beauty  in  distress  always  appeals  to 
me.  Having  rounded  us  up  you  may  as  well  lose 
no  time  in  taking  us  to  the  sacrifice." 

The  Colonel  with  his  prizes  at  his  heels  reentered 
the  room.  The  two  men  looked  very  different  in  the 
light  of  the  kerosene  lamps.  Gracey  having  resolved 
to  do  what  he  had  been  asked,  hid  his  unwillingness 
under  a  demeanor  of  stiff  gravity.  Barclay  was  evi- 
dently amused  and  not  averse  to  following  out  the 
adventure.  His  look  of  a  different  world  was  more 
marked  than  ever  by  contrast  with  the  clumsy  coun- 


42  THE  PIONEER 

try-raen  about  him,  but  his  capacity  to  adjust  himself 
to  all  environments  made  him  cross  the  room  with 
an  easy  grace,  when  his  companion  was  obviously 
out  of  his  element. 

The  Colonel,  flanked  by  his  reinforcements,  came 
to  a  stand  before  the  young  girl.  She  looked  up, 
smiling,  her  eye  lighting  on  one  man  and  then  on 
the  other.  She  was  surprised,  delighted,  a  trifle  em- 
barrassed, as  the  men  could  see  by  a  sudden  access 
of  color  in  her  cheeks. 

"Here,"  said  the  Colonel,  "are  two  gentlemen  who 
have  been  outside  watching  us  and  dying  to  come 
in  and  have  a  dance.  Will  you  take  pity  on  them, 
Miss — Miss — "  he  paused,  suddenly  realizing  that  he 
did  not  know  her  name. 

"Miss,"  he  stammered  for  the  third  time,  and  then 
bent  down  toward  her  and  said  in  a  lowered  voice, 

"My  dear  young  lady,  forgive  me,  but  you  know  I 
don't  know  what  your  name  is." 

"My  name?"  she  said,  smiling.  "Why,  how  funny! 
My  rame  is  Allen,  June  Allen.  My  father  is  Beau- 
regard  Allen  and  we  live  on  the  Parrish  tract." 

The  Colonel  straightened  himself  suddenly,  almost 
flinching.  The  two  men  were  looking  at  the  girl 
and  the  girl  at  them,  so  that  none  of  the  trio  noticed 
his  expression.  He  cleared  his  throat  before  he 
spoke. 

"Allen,"  he  said,  "Miss  Allen,  let  me  introduce 
Mr.  Rion  Gracey  and  Mr.  Barclay." 

The  introductions  were  acknowledged  and  as  the 
men  sat  down  on  either  side  of  the  no  longer  lonely 


THE  NAME  OF  ALLEN  43 

young  woman  the  Colonel,  with  a  short  "Good  night," 
turned  and  left  them. 

He  passed  quickly  through  the  dancing-room  on 
to  the  balcony,  his  body  erect,  his  eyes  staring 
straight  before  him.  The  name  of  Allen  was  loud 
in  his  ears.  It  had  struck  like  a  dagger  thrust 
through  the  trained  indifference  of  years  and  torn 
open  an  old  wound. 


V     CHAPTER   IV 
o,  MINE  ENEMY! 

In  his  room  he  lit  the  lamp  and  flung  the  window 
wide.  It  opened  on  the  upper  balcony,  and  through 
the  foliage  of  the  locusts  he  could  see  the  lights  of 
the  town,  and  farther  up,  between  the  interstices  of 
the  branches,  pieces  of  the  night  sky  sown  with 
stars.  The  scent  of  the  drooping  blossoms  was  heavy 
on  the  air.  From  below  the  music  came  softened, 
and  the  house  vibrated  with  the  rhythmic  swing  of 
the  dance.  He  stood  for  a  moment  staring  upward 
and  absently  listening,  then  went  back  into  his  room, 
and  sat  down  by  the  table,  his  head  propped  on  his 
hand. 

The  old  wound,  so  suddenly  torn  open,  was  bleed- 
ing. The  lonely  man  seemed  to  feel  the  slow  drops 
falling  from  it.  Passion  and  despair,  dulled  by  time, 
were  suddenly  endowed  with  the  force  they  had  had 
twenty-one  years  ago.  They  had  the  vitality  of  a 
deathless  tragedy. 

The  time  of  his  courtship  and  engagement  to  Alice 
Joyce  had  been  that  period  when  he  had  held  happi- 
ness in  his  arms  and  thought  that  she  would  stay 
for  ever.  Alice  had  been  a  school-teacher  in  Sac- 
ramento, an  orphan  girl  sent  out  from  Boston  in 
44 


O,  MINE  ENEMY!  45 

forty-nine  to  join  relatives  already  settled  in  Cal- 
ifornia. Her  parents  had  been  people  of  means  and 
she  had  been  highly  educated.  But  her  father  had  lost 
his  money  and  then  died,  and  Alice  had  been  forced 
to  earn  her  living.  She  was  young,  gentle-mannered 
and  very  pretty.  Her  daughter — that  girl  down  stairs — 
was  surprisingly,  appallingly  like  her,  only  Alice  had 
been  prettier.  Her  face  in  its  soft  youth  rose  before 
him.  It  was  the  face  of  the  girl  down  stairs  touched 
with  a  clearer  bloom,  the  lips  redder,  the  cheeks  more 
delicately  rounded.  But  the  eyes  with  the  straight 
lower  lid  and  the  greenish-brown  iris  were  the  same, 
and  so  was  the  pointed  chin  and  the  one  dimple. 

He  had  been  a  miner,  doing  his  work  with  the 
others  in  the  great  days  on  the  American  River, 
when  he  met  her  on  a  trip  to  Sacramento.  He  was 
thirty-four  and  had  cared  little  for  women  till  then, 
but  he  loved  her  from  the  first  without  hesitation 
or  uncertainty.  She  was  his  mate,  the  other  half 
of  him  who  would  round  out  and  perfect  his  life. 
That  he  had  nothing  was  of  no  matter.  There  was 
always  a  living  for  the  man  who  worked  in  those 
uncrowded  days,  and  Jim  Parrish  was  a  worker,  a 
mighty  man  with  the  pick,  who  could  stand  knee 
deep  in  the  water  all  day,  and  at  night  sleep  the  sleep 
of  the  just  on  the  dry  grass  under  the  stars. 

Those  had  been  Jim  Parrish's  great  days,  "the 
butt  and  sea-mark  of  his  sail."  Life  had  unrolled 
before  him  like  a  map,  all  pleasant  rivers  and  smiling 
plains.  At  intervals  he  went  to  Sacramento  to  see 
Alice.  She  had  other  suitors,  but  she  was  his  from 
the  first,  and  nestled  inside  the  protection  of  this 


46  THE  PIONEER 

strong  man's  love  with  the  tender  trust  of  her  soft 
and  dependent  nature. 

Parrish  had  one  friend  and  confidant,  John  Beau- 
regard  Allen.  They  had  crossed  the  Isthmus  to- 
gether in  forty-eight,  had  roomed  together  in  the 
sprawling  town  scattered  about  the  curve  of  San 
Francisco  Bay,  had  rushed  to  the  foot-hills  when  the 
mile  race  at  Sutter's  Creek  startled  the  world  with  its 
sediment  of  yellow  dust.  Once  in  a  gambling-house 
in  Sonora,  Parrish  had  struck  up  the  revolver  which 
threatened  his  friend's  life,  the  bullet  ripping  its  way 
across  his  own  shoulder  in  a  red  furrow  he  would 
carry  to  his  death. 

Allen  was  a  Southerner,  a  South  Carolinian  of 
birth-  and  education,  a  man  of  daring  and  adven- 
turous character,  possessed  of  unusual  good  looks 
and  personal  charm.  To  Parrish,  a  simpler  nature, 
born  and  reared  in  poverty  in  a  small  town  in  western 
New  York,  the  brilliant  Southerner  was  all  that  was 
generous,  brave  and  chivalrous.  The  friendship  be- 
tween the  two  men  was  of  a  strength  that  neither 
thought  could  ever  be  broken.  The  one  subject  of 
friction  between  them  was  slavery,  already  beginning 
to  burn  in  the  thoughts  and  speech  of  men.  Allen's 
father  was  a  wealthy  slave-owner,  and  the  son  was 
in  California  to  satisfy  his  spirit  of  adventure  and 
to  conquer  fortune  on  his  own  account.  He  was  one 
of  that  large  colony  of  Southerners,  in  some  cases 
blatant  and  pretentious,  in  others  brilliant  and  large- 
hearted,  which  in  later  years  gave  tone  to  the  city, 
formed  its  manners,  established  its  code  of  morals, 
and  tried  to  direct  its  political  life. 


O,  MINE  ENEMY!  47 

The  rude  environment  of  the  mines  was  distaste- 
ful to  him,  and  he  returned  to  San  Francisco  where, 
backed  by  his  father,  he  started  in  business.  Letters 
passed  between  the  friends,  and  as  Parrish's  court- 
ship progressed  he  poured  out  his  heart  to  Allen  in 
pages  that,  in  after  years,  he  remembered  with  im- 
potent fury.  All  the  hopes  and  aspirations  of  his 
new  life,  when  a  woman  should  be  beside  him  and 
a  woman's  hand  should  be  clasped  in  his,  were  told 
to  his  absent  friend.  At  length,  after  an  engage- 
ment of  some  weeks,  the  date  for  the  marriage  was 
set.  Before  this  took  place  Alice  wished  to  visit  her 
relatives,  who  lived  in  San  Francisco,  and  there  buy 
the  trousseau  for  which  she  had  been  saving  her 
salary.  Parrish  reluctantly  consented  to  her  depart- 
ure. While  she  was  gone  he  would  build  for  his 
bride  a  cottage  in  Hangtown  where  his  mining  opera- 
tions were  then  conducted.  Before  she  left  he  wrote 
a  letter  to  Beauregard  Allen  giving  him  her  address 
and  asking  him  to  call  on  her. 

Alice's  visit  of  a  month  lengthened  to  two.  Her 
letters,  which  at  first  had  been  full  of  Allen's  name, 
toward  the  middle  of  the  second  month  contained 
little  or  no  mention  of  him.  Her  excuse  for  the 
postponing  of  her  return  was  that  the  work  of  dress- 
makers had  been  slower  than  she  had  expected.  Also 
her  relatives  had  urged  upon  her  to  prolong  her 
stay,  as  they  did  not  know  when  they  might  see  her 
again. 

A  less  blind  lover  might  have  seen  matter  for 
uneasiness  in  the  more  reserved  tone,  the  growing 
brevity  of  these  letters.  A  suspicious  lover  might 


48  THE  PIONEER 

have  wondered  why  Allen  had  not  only  ceased  to 
praise  the  charm  and  beauty  of  his  friend's  betrothed, 
but  had  almost  entirely  stopped  writing.  Jim  Par- 
rish  was  disturbed  by  neither  uneasiness  nor  suspicion. 
That  sweetheart  and  friend  could  combine  to  deal 
him  the  deadly  blow  in  store  for  him  was  beyond  his 
power  of  imagination. 

Finally  a  date  was  set  for  Alice's  return.  Her 
clothes  were  all  bought,  packed  and  paid  for.  Her 
last  letter,  the  tone  of  which  for  the  first  time  struck 
him  as  constrained  and  cold,  told  him  the  steamer  on 
which  she  would  arrive  and  the  hour  it  was  due. 
Before  this  Parrish  had  written  to  Allen,  urging  his 
attendance  at  his  wedding  and  suggesting  that  he 
act  as  Alice's  escort  on  the  trip  to  Sacramento.  To 
this  his  friend  had  replied  that  he  would  do  so  if 
possible,  but  the  demands  of  his  business  were  en- 
grossing. The  cottage  at  Hangtown  was  finished 
and  furnished  as  well  as  the  bridegroom's  scanty 
means  would  permit.  In  a  dream  of  joy  he  left  it, 
went  down  to  Sacramento,  bought  the  few  clothes 
that  went  to  the  making  of  his  wedding  outfit,  and 
then  waited  for  the  steamer  with  the  high,  exalted 
happiness  of  the  man  who  is  about  to  be  united  to 
the  woman  he  honestly  loves. 

When  the  steamer  arrived  neither  Allen  nor  Alice 
was  on  board.  He  was  stunned  at  first,  not  having 
had  the  least  anticipation  of  such  a  catastrophe. 
Then  a  fear  that  she  might  be  sick  seized  upon  him 
and  he  sought  the  captain  for  any  information  he 
might  have.  Contrary  to  his  expectation,  the  captain 
was  full  of  information.  The  lady  and  gentleman 


O,  MINE  ENEMY!  49 

had  boarded  the  steamer  at  San  Francisco,  holding 
through  tickets  for  Sacramento.  After  they  had 
passed  Contra  Costa,  however,  the  gentleman  had 
come  to  him,  telling  him  of  a  sudden  change  in 
their  plans  and  urging  him  to  put  them  ashore  at 
the  first  stopping  place.  This  he  had  done  at  Benecia. 
He  had  heard  one  of  them  say  something  about  going 
to  San  Jose.  The  lady,  however,  would  explain  it 
more  satisfactorily  in  the  letter  she  had  left,  and  he 
handed  Parrish  a  letter  addressed  in  Alice's  writing. 

The  listener  had  been  dazed  during  the  first  part 
of  the  captain's  recital.  He  could  not  understand 
what  had  happened,  only  an  icy  premonition  of  evil 
clutched  his  heart.  Alice's  letter  cleared  up  all  un- 
certainty. 

In  a  few  blotted,  incoherent  lines  she  told  him  of 
her  intention  to  leave  the  steamer  with  Allen,  cross 
to  San  Jose,  and  there  marry  him.  Her  love  for  her 
fiance  had  been  shriveled  to  ashes  before  the  flame 
of  the  Southerner's  fiery  wooing.  But  she  averred 
that  she  had  in  the  beginning  repulsed  his  attentions, 
fully  intending  to  return  to  Sacramento  and  fulfill 
her  engagement  with  Parrish.  She  had  not  known 
Allen  intended  accompanying  her  on  the  trip  to  Sac- 
ramento. Had  she  known,  she  never  would  have 
permitted  it.  It  was  on  the  steamer  that  he  had  finally 
prevailed  over  her  conscience  and  beaten  down  her 
scruples,  till  she  had  agreed  to  elope  with  him. 

Jim  Parrish  never  knew  how  he  reached  his  hotel 
room  that  evening.  He  sat  there  a  long  time — a  day 
and  a  night  he  thought — staring  at  his  wedding 
clothes  spread  on  the  bed.  What  roused  him  from 


50  THE  PIONEER 

his  benumbed  condition  was  a  newspaper  from  San 
Jose  bearing  a  marked  announcement  of  the  mar- 
riage. A  letter  from  Allen  followed  this.  It  was  short 
but  characteristically  grandiloquent.  In  it  he  stated 
that  he  had  broken  the  sacred  obligations  of  friend- 
ship, but  that  his  passion  for  the  woman  had  over- 
borne every  other  sentiment.  He  was  from  hence- 
forward an  outcast  from  honest  men,  a  fitting  pun- 
ishment for  one  who  had  held  his  honor  as  his  dear- 
est possession,  and  who  had  brought  a  blot  upon  a 
heretofore  stainless  name. 

The  letter  roused  Parrish  like  a  hand  on  his  neck. 
It  was  so  like  the  writer,  with  its  theatrical  pose  and 
its  high  talk  of  his  honor  and  his  name.  A  flood  of 
fury  rose  in  the  betrayed  man,  and  he  walked  the 
streets  of  the  city  with  murder  in  his  heart.  Had 
he  met  his  one-time  friend  he  would  have  rushed  up- 
on him  and  stamped  and  beaten  his  life  out.  Feel- 
ings of  hatred  he  had  never  known  he  could  harbor 
burned  in  him.  At  night  he  walked  for  miles,  his 
hands  clenched  as  he  struggled  with  these  unfamiliar 
demons  that  seemed  tearing  the  ligaments  of  his 
life  apart. 

For  Alice  his  love  neither  changed  nor  ceased. 
He  believed  her  to  have  been  overborne  by  Allen, 
carried  off  her  feet  by  the  reckless  impetuosity  he 
himself  had  once  thought  so  dazzling.  If  Allen  had 
left  her  alone,  if  when  he  felt  love  rise  in  him,  he 
had  withdrawn  from  her,  Parrish  knew  that  the  girl 
would  have  remained  true  to  him  and  now  would 
be  his  wife,  nestled  in  his  arms,  asking  no  better 
resting  place.  At  times,  in  the  lonely  watches  of  the 


O,  MINE  ENEMY!  51 

night,  he  thought  that,  but  for  the  false  friend,  she 
would  have  been  beside  him,  her  head  against  his 
shoulder,  her  light  breath  touching  his  cheek  as  she 
slept.  It  goaded  him  up  and  out  into  the  darkness 
torn  by  the  rage  that  drives  men  to  murder. 

Then,  his  first  fury  spent,  he  tried  to  rearrange 
his  life — to  begin  again.  He  gave  the  cottage  at 
Hangtown  to  his  partner  and  moved  his  mining  oper- 
ations to  Sonora.  Soon  after  he  began  to  meet  with 
his  first  small  successes.  Now  that  he  had  no  need 
for  money  it  came  to  him.  By  the  time  the  Civil 
War  broke  out  he  was  a  man  of  means  and  mark. 

Once  or  twice  in  these  years  he  heard  of  John 
Beauregard  Allen  and  his  wife.  They  had  pros- 
pered for  a  time,  then  bad  luck  had  fallen  upon  them. 
Allen's  father,  reputed  a  rich  man,  died  insolvent, 
leaving  nothing  but  debts.  Allen's  own  business  in 
San  Francisco  had  failed  and  they  had  left  there  in 
the  fifties.  Once,  just  before  the  war,  stopping  for 
a  day  or  two  at  Downieville,  Parrish  had  accidentally 
heard  that  they  had  been  living  there  and  that  Mrs. 
Allen  had  lost  a  little  boy,  her  only  son.  He  had 
left  by  the  first  stage,  his  heart  gripped  by  the  thought 
of  Alice,  a  mother,  mourning  for  her  dead  child. 

In  sixty  he  had  returned  to  the  East  to  fight  for  the 
Union.  Five  years  later  he  came  back  as  Colonel 
Parrish,  a  title  earned  by  distinguished  services  to  his 
country.  It  was  said  by  his  friends  that  Jim  Parrish 
would  have  been  a  millionaire  if  he  had  stayed  by  his 
mines  and  his  investments  as  other  men  had.  But 
Parrish  had  cared  more  for  the  Union  than  for 
money.  And,  after  all,  what  good  was  money  to  him ! 


52  THE  PIONEER 

Often  in  the  four  years  of  battle  and  bloodshed  he 
had  wondered  if  he  ever  would  meet  Beauregard 
Allen  face  to  face  in  the  smoke,  and  whether,  if  he 
did,  the  thought  of  a  woman  and  children  would 
hold  his  hand.  But  he  never  did.  He  learned  after- 
ward that  Allen  had  remained  in  California. 

After  his  return  from  the  war  he  heard  of  them 
only  once.  This  was  in  a  club  in  San  Francisco, 
where  a  mining  superintendent,  recently  back  from 
Virginia  City,  casually  mentioned  the  fact  that  Beau- 
regard  Allen,  a  prominent  figure  in  early  San  Fran- 
cisco, was  holding  a  small  position  in  the  assay  office 
there.  In  the  succeeding  four  or  five  years  they 
dropped  completely  out  of  sight.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  what  had  long  been  an  open  wound  was 
now  a  scar.  Peace,  the  gray  peace  of  a  heart  that 
neither  hopes  nor  desires,  was  his. 

And  suddenly  without  warning  or  expectation,  his 
old  enemy  was  standing  in  his  path.  Allen  the 
squatter,  the  man  who  was  claiming  his  land,  the 
man  whose  children  had  been  improving  it,  was  John 
Beauregard  Allen !  It  was  Alice's  daughter  who 
had  been  sitting  on  the  bench  in  her  poor  dress  with 
her  coarsened  hands.  It  was  Alice  who  was  the 
"mother"  that  was  sick. 

He  rose  from  hi^  seat  with  a  groan,  and  going  to 
the  window  pushed  aside  the  curtain  and  looked  out. 
The  lamp  behind  him  sputtered  and,  sending  a  rank 
smell  into  the  air,  went  out.  The  day  was  dawning. 
A  pale  gray  light  mounted  the  sky  behind  the  locust 
trees  quivering  each  moment  into  a  warmer  bright- 
ness. 


O,  MINE  ENEMY!  53 

By  its  searching  clearness  the  Colonel's  face  looked 
old  and  worn.  It  was  a  face  of  a  leathern  brownness 
of  skin,  against  which  the  white  hair  and  gray  mus- 
tache stood  out  in  curious  contrast.  The  brows  were 
bushy,  the  eyes  they  shadowed  clear  gray,  deep-set 
and  steady,  with  an  under-look  of  melancholy  always 
showing  through  their  twinkle  of  humor.  There 
was  no  humor  in  them  now.  They  were  old  and 
sad,  the  lines  round  them  deep  as  were  those  that 
marked  the  forehead  under  its  rough  white  hair. 

Through  the  branches  of  the  trees  he  could  see 
the  slopes  of  his  own  land,  the  thick  dark  growth  of 
chaparral  muffling  the  hillside,  and  on  its  crest  the 
glow  of  the  east  barred  by  the  trunks  of  pines.  As 
he  remembered,  the  cottage  was  somewhere  below 
them,  on  the  edge  of  the  cleared  stretch  which  ran 
along  the  road.  They  were  there — Alice  and  her 
children,  beggars  on  the  land  Beauregard  Allen  was 
trying  to  steal  from  him. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SUMMONS 

Later  on  in  the  morning  the  Colonel  waked  from 
a  few  hours  of  uneasy  slumber.  Us  had  thrown 
himself  dressed  on  his  bed  and  dropped  into  a  sleep 
from  which  he  had  been  roused  by  the  morning 
sounds  of  Foleys.  The  lethargy  and  depression  of 
the  night  of  memories  clung  heavily  to  him,  and  as 
he  dressed  he  decided  that  he  would  leave  the  camp 
that  morning,  sending  word  to  Cusack  the  lawyer 
that  he  would  let  the  matter  of  the  squatter  rest  for 
a  few  days. 

As  he  left  the  dining-room  after  breakfast,  he  was 
accosted  by  a  stable-man,  who  informed  him  that 
Kit  Carson  was  inclined  to  "go  tender"  on  one  of 
his  front  feet.  The  man  did  not  know  when  the 
Colonel  intended  leaving,  but  if  it  was  that  day  he 
would  advise  him  to  "wait  over  a  spell"  and  let 
Kit  "rest  up."  Nearly  a  hundred  and  forty  miles  in 
thirty-six  hours — especially  with  the  sun  so  hot  at 
midday,  was  a  pretty  serious  proposition  even  for 
Kit  Carson. 

The  Colonel  stood  silent  for  a  moment  looking  at 
the  man  from  under  frowning  brows.  It  would  be 
possible  for  him  to  take  one  of  Forsythe's  horses. 
54 


THE  SUMMONS  55 

ride  to  Milton,  and  there  get  the  Stockton  stage.  For- 
svthe's  boy  could  ride  Kit  back  to  Sacramento  when 
his  front  foot  ceased  to  be  tender.  But  after  all, 
what  was  the  use  of  running  from  the  situation? 
There  it  was,  to  be  thought  out  and  dealt  with.  It 
was  Fate  that  had  lamed  the  never  tired  or  disabled 
Kit  just  at  this  juncture. 

With  a  word  to  the  man  that  he  would  stay  over 
till  the  horse  was  in  proper  condition,  he  passed 
through  the  hall  and  along  the  balcony  to  the  side 
which  flanked  the  dining-room.  Its  boarded  length 
was  deserted,  with,  before  each  window,  a  social 
gathering  of  chairs  as  they  had  been  arranged  by 
on-lookers  during  last  night's  revel.  A  long  line  of 
locust  trees,  their  foliage  motionless  in  the  warm 
air,  grew  between  the  hotel  fence  and  the  road,  throw- 
ing the  balcony  in  a  scented  shade. 

Between  their  trunks  the  Colonel  could  survey  the 
main  street  of  Foleys,  already  wrapped  in  its  morn- 
ing state  of  somnolence,  its  unstirred  dust  beaten 
upon  by  a  relentless  blaze  of  sun.  Under  the  cov- 
ered sidewalk  a  shirt-sleeved  figure  now  and  then 
passed  with  loitering  step,  or  a  sun-bonneted  woman 
picked  her  way  through  the  dust.  The  male  popu- 
lation of  the  camp  was,  for  the  most  part,  gathered 
in  detached  groups  which  marked  the  doorways  of 
saloons.  Each  member  of  a  group  occupied  a  wooden 
arm-chair,  had  his  heels  raised  high  on  a  hitching 
bar,  his  hat  well  down  on  his  nose,  while  a  spiral 
of  smoke  issued  from  beneath  the  brim.  Now  and 
then  some  one  spoke  and  the  Colonel  could  see  the 


56  THE  PIONEER 

heads  under  the  tilted  hats  slowly  turning  to  sur- 
vey the  speaker.  At  intervals,  however,  a  word  was 
passed  of  sudden,  energizing  import.  It  roused  the 
group  which  rose  as  a  man  and  filed  into  the  saloon. 
When  they  emerged,  they  seated  themselves,  the 
silence  resettled,  and  all  appeared  to  drowse.  The 
one  being  who  defied  the  soporific  effect  of  the  hour 
was  an  unseen  player  on  the  French  horn  who  be- 
guiled the  morning  stillness  with  variations  of  the 
melody,  When  this  Cruel  War  is  Over. 

The  Colonel,  smoking  his  morning  cigar,  surveyed 
the  outlook  with  the  unseeing  eyes  of  extreme  pre- 
occupation. He  did  not  even  notice  the  presence  of 
the  saddled  horse  which  a  stable-man  had  led  up  to 
the  gate  just  below  where  he  sat.  Some  louder 
admonition  of  the  man's  to  the  fretting  animal  finally 
caught  his  ear  and  his  fixed  eyes  fell  on  it. 

It  was  a  stately  creature,  satin-flanked  and  slender- 
legged,  stamping  and  shaking  its  long  mane  in  its 
impatience.  The  neat  pack  of  the  traveler  was  tied 
behind  the  saddle. 

"Whose  horse  is  that,  Tom?"  said  the  Colonel, 
knowing  its  type  strange  to  Foleys.  "Didn't  the 
Gracey  boys  go  back  last  night?" 

"Yes.  The  whole  Buckeye  Belle  outfit  rode  back 
at  three.  This  is  Jerry  Barclay's  horse.  He's  goin' 
on  this  morning  to  Thompson's  Flat.  Barclay  rid 
him  up  from  Stockton — won't  take  no  livery  horse. 
Has  this  one  sent  up  on  the  boat." 

As  the  man  spoke  the  Colonel  heard  a  quick  step 
on  the  balcony  behind  him,  and  the  owner  of  the 


THE  SUMMONS  57 

horse  came  around  the  corner,  smiling,  handsome, 
debonair  in  his  loose-fitting  clothes,  long  riding  boots 
and  wide-brimmed  hat. 

"Morning,  Colonel,"  he  said ;  "I  see  the  tropical 
calm  of  Foleys  is  affecting  you.  Take  example  by 
me — off  for  twenty  miles  across  country  to  Thomp- 
son's Flat." 

He  ran  down  the  steps  and  out  into  the  road. 
There,  standing  in  the  dust  putting  on  his  gloves,  he 
let  a  quick,  investigating  eye  run  over  his  horse. 

"I  intended  starting  at  sun-up,"  he  said,  "and 
then  they  went  and  forgot  to  wake  me.  Now  I  have 
to  ride  twenty  miles  over  roads  a  foot  deep  in  dust 
and  under  a  sun  as  hot  as  a  smelting  furnace." 

"Shouldn't  have  been  so  dissipated  last  night," 
said  the  Colonel.  "What  time  did  you  get  to  bed?" 

The  young  man,  who  was  adjusting  his  stirrup, 
turned  round. 

"Oh,  that  was  the  dearest  little  girl  last  night. 
Where'd  you  find  her?  And  how  did  a  girl  like  that 
ever  grow  up  in  a  God-forsaken  spot  like  Foleys?" 

He  vaulted  into  the  saddle  not  waiting  for  an 
answer.  Then  as  his  horse,  curvetting  and  backing 
in  a  last  ecstasy  of  impatience,  churned  up  a  cloud 
of  dust,  he  called, 

"I'm  quite  fascinated.  Going  to  stop  over  on  my 
way  back.  Give  May  or  April  or  June  or  whatever 
her  name  is,  my  love.  Hasta  manana,  old  man!" 

The  horse,  at  length  liberated,  plunged  forward 
and  dashed  up  the  road,  the  soft  diminishing  thud  of 
its  hoofs  for  a  momen*-  filling  the  silence.  The 


58  THE  PIONEER 

stable-man  slouched  lazily  off,  and  the  Colonel  was 
once  more  left  to  his  cigar  and  his  meditations. 

These  were  soon  as  deeply  engrossing  as  ever. 
With  his  eyes  looking  down  the  sun-steeped  street 
he  was  not  aware  of  a  blue-clothed  feminine  figure 
which  came  into  view  along  the  highway  upon  which 
the  balcony  fronted.  At  first  she  walked  quickly 
in  a  blaze  of  sun,  then  crossed  the  road,  charily  hold- 
ing up  her  skirt,  and  approached  in  the  shadow  of 
the  locusts.  She  wore  a  blue-and-white  cotton  dress, 
a  sun-burnt  straw  hat,  trimmed  with  a  blue  ribbon, 
and  as  she  drew  near  was  revealed  to  be  a  young 
girl  in  the  end  of  her  teens,  large,  finely-shaped,  and 
erect. 

Walking  on  the  outside  of  the  fence  she  eyed  the 
Colonel  for  a  scrutinizing  moment,  then  stopping 
at  the  gate,  opened  it  with  a  slight  click,  and  stood 
hesitating.  He  heard  the  sound,  looked  up,  and  met 
her  eyes — blue  and  inquiring — fixed  gravely  on  him. 
She  had  a  firmly-modeled,  handsome  face,  full  of 
rich,  youthful  tints  and  mellow  curves.  Her  straw 
hat  sent  a  clean  wash  of  shade  to  just  below  her  nose. 
Under  this,  in  the  blinding  steadiness  of  the  sunlight, 
her  mouth  and  chin,  the  former  large  and  with 
strongly  curved  lips,  looked  as  smooth  and  fresh  as 
portions  of  a  ripe  fruit.  There  was  hesitation  but 
no  embarrassment  in  her  attitude.  Even  at  this  first 
glance  one  might  guess  that  this  was  a  young  woman 
devoid  of  self-consciousness  and  not  readily  em- 
barrassed. 

"Are  you  Colonel  Parrish?"  she  said  in  a  rather 
loud,  clear  voice. 


THE  SUMMONS  59 

He  rose,  throwing  away  his  cigar,  and  replied  with 
an  affirmative  that  he  tried  not  to  make  astonished. 

She  ascended  the  steps,  again  hesitated,  and  then 
held  out  a  sun-burnt  hand. 

"I'm  glad  I  found  you,"  she  said,  as  he  released 
it.  "I  thought  perhaps  you  might  have  gone  on  to 
the  Buckeye  Belle.  Everybody  goes  there  now.  My 
name  is  Allen,  Rosamund  Allen.  You  met  my  sister 
June  last  night." 

"Oh,"  murmured  the  Colonel,  and  then  he  gave  a 
weak,  "Of  course.  Sit  down." 

He  was  glad  of  the  moment's  respite  that  getting 
her  a  chair  and  placing  it  gave  him.  She  was  the 
second  daughter.  In  that  first  glance  of  startled  in- 
vestigation he  had  seen  no  particular  likeness  to  either 
parent.  This  girl  would  not  tear  his  heart  by  look- 
ing at  him  with  her  mother's  eyes. 

"I — I — enjoyed  meeting  your  sister  last  night,"  he 
said  as  they  found  themselves  seated  facing  each 
other.  "She — she — "  He  did  not  know  what  to  say. 
He  wondered  why  the  girl  had  come.  Had  some 
one  sent  her? 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  clear,  calm  eyes,  cool 
and  interested.  She  was  unquestionably  handsomer 
than  her  sister.  A  year  or  two  younger  he  guessed, 
though  much  larger,  a  typical  Calif ornian  in  her 
downy  bloom  of  skin  and  fullness  of  contour.  Her 
simple  dress  had  been  designed  with  taste  and  set 
with  a  grace  that  was  imparted  more  by  the  beauti- 
ful lines  of  the  body  it  covered  than  any  particular 
skill  in  its  fashioning.  There  was  the  same  neatness 
and  care  of  detail  in  her  humble  adornments  that 


60  THE  PIONEER 

he  had  noticed  in  her  sister's — the  ineradicable  dainti- 
ness of  the  woman  whose  forebears  have  lived  deli- 
cately. 

"June  had  such  a  good  time  last  night,"  she  said 
with  an  air  of  volubility.  "At  first  she  said  it  was 
dreadful.  Hardly  any  one  asked  her  to  dance,  and 
she  didn't  see  how  she  could  wait  for  father,  who  was 
going  to  call  for  her  at  twelve.  And  then  you  came 
and  introduced  those  gentlemen  to  her.  After  that 
she  had  the  loveliest  time.  She  didn't  want  to  go 
at  all  when  father  came.  She  made  him  wait  till 
two !" 

"I'm  glad  she  enjoyed  it.  It  was  pretty  dull  for 
her  at  first.  She  didn't  want  to  dance  with  the  kind 
of  men  that  were  there.  I  was  glad  to  introduce 
Rion  Gracey  to  her.  He's  more  or  less  of  a  neigh- 
bor of  yours,  according  to  foot-hill  distances." 

The  Colonel  was  fencing,  watching  the  girl  and 
wondering  why  she  had  come.  She  had  the  air  of 
settling  down  to  a  leisurely,  enjoyable  gossip. 

"Yes.  We  never  met  him  before.  It's  funny,  be- 
cause they've  been  here  over  a  year;  up  at  the 
Buckeye  Belle,  of  course.  But  then,  they  ride  in  here 
all  the  time.  I've  often  seen  both  the  Graceys  riding 
past  our  place.  The  road  in  from  there  goes  by  our 
land.  You  know  where  that  is? — the  long  strip  back 
there — "  waving  her.  hand  in  the  direction  of  the 
Colonel's  disputed  acres — "where  the  tall  pines  are, 
and — " 

She  stopped,  crimsoning  to  her  hair.  She  had  evi- 
dently suddenly  realized  to  whom  she  was  so  glibly 
talking.  There  was  no  question  but  that  she  was 


THE  SUMMONS  61 

embarrassed  now.  She  bent  her  burning  face  down 
and  began  to  make  little  pleats  in  her  dress  with  her 
sun-burnt  fingers. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  the  Colonel,  exceedingly 
embarrassed  himself,  "right  back  there.  Yes,  of 
course.  On  the  road  that  goes  to  Thompson's  Flat. 
By  the  way,  I  hope  your  sister's  dress  wasn't  seriously 
damaged  last  night.  The  dye  coming  off  the  flowers, 
I  mean." 

The  girl  heaved  a  breath  of  relief  and  tilted  her 
head  to  one  side  regarding  the  pleats  she  had  made 
from  a  different  view  point.  For  her  age  and  en- 
vironment her  aplomb  was  remarkable. 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid  it's  very  badly  marked.  They  were 
such  cheap  flowers.  Mother  thinks  we  can  arrange 
something  with  rosettes." 

She  ceased  her  pleating,  raised  her  head  fully,  and 
looked  at  him. 

"Mother  was  so  pleased  and  so  astonished  when 
she  heard  from  June  about  meeting  you.  She  used 
to  know  you  well,  she  said — a  long  time  ago,  before 
she  was  married." 

Her  eyes  looked  innocently  and  gravely  into  his. 
There  was  no  concealment  in  them.  She  was  speak- 
ing frankly  and  honestly.  Now  the  Colonel  knew  she 
had  been  sent.  He  braced  himself  for  her  coming 
words. 

"Yes,  I  knew  your  mother,"  he  said,  hearing  his 
voice  sound  husky.  "But,  as  you  say,  it  was  a  long 
time  ago." 

"Mother  got  quite  excited  when  she  heard  it  was 
you.  You  know  she's  not  well  and  the  least  thing 


62  THE  PIONEER 

upsets  her.  She  couldn't  believe  it  at  first.  Then 
she  wondered  if  you  wouldn't  come  up  and  see  her 
and  sent  me  down-^o  ask  you." 

Alice  had  sent  her.  After  twenty-one  years  Alice 
had  sent  this  message  for  him!  And  it  was  all  so 
natural  and  simple — a  moment  that  sometimes,  in 
hours  of  melancholy  brooding,  he  had  thought  of, 
and  always  seen  fraught  with  tragic  passion.  He 
bent  to  pick  up  a  locust  blossom  that  a  wandering 
zephyr  had  wafted  along  the  balcony  floor.  For  a 
moment  he  made  no  answer.  He  could  not  trust  his 
voice.  The  girl  continued,  not  noticing  his  silence. 

"She  doesn't  see  many  people.  She's  sick,  you 
know;  June  said  she  told  you.  And  then  there's  not 
many  people  round  here  for  her  to  see.  I  suppose 
you'll  find  her  changed  if  you  haven't  seen  her  since 
she  was  married.  She's  changed  a  good  deal  lately, 
poor  mother!" 

She  gave  a  sigh  and  looked  away  from  him.  The 
Colonel  answered  quickly: 

"Oh,  yes,  I'll  come,  I'll  come." 

His  visitor  did  not  seem  to  notice  anything  unusual 
in  his  manner  of  accepting  the  invitation  of  an  old 
friend.  The  trouble  of  her  mother's  changed  con- 
dition was  uppermost  in  her  mind. 

"I  dare  say  you  won't  know  it's  the  same  person. 
But  don't  let  her  see  that.  We  want  her  to  be  bright 
and  cheerful,  and  if  people  look  surprised  when  they 
see  her  it  makes  her  think  she's  worse — "  She 
looked  anxiously  at  him,  but  his  face  was  averted. 
There  was  a  slight  pause  and  then  she  said  in  a  low 
voice : 


THE  SUMMONS  63 

"Mother  has  consumption,  Colonel  Parrish." 

This  time  he  turned  and  stared  straight  at  her. 
Her  eves,  full  of  sad  meaning,  were  fixed  on  him. 
The  other  daughter's  remarks  had  led  him  to  suppose 
that  Alice  was  suffering  from  some  temporary  ill- 
ness. Now  he  knew  that  she  was  dying. 

"It  was  Virginia  City  that  did  it,"  the  girl  con- 
tinued. "She  wasn't  strong  for  years.  A  long  time 
ago  in  Downieville  our  brother,  younger  than  we 
were,  died,  and  father  always  thought  she  never  got 
over  that.  But  in  Virginia  there  were  such  hard 
winters  and  those  awful  winds  blew  so!  We  were 
there  for  two  years  before  we  came  here;  and  she 
had  pneumonia  and  after  that  she  didn't  get  well. 
But  we  stayed  on  there,  for  father  had  some  work 
in  the  assay  office,  and  though  everything  cost  a  ter- 
rible price,  it  was  better  than  what  he  got  in  the  mines 
over  here." 

The  Colonel  was  half  turned  from  her  in  his  chair. 
She  could  see  his  profile  with  the  shaggy  brows 
drawn  over  his  eyes. 

"She  doctored  there  for  a  long  time,  and  every- 
thing cost  so  much  money !  Then  one  day,  one  of 
the  doctors  told  father  she'd  never  get  well  if  she 
stayed  in  that  climate.  'Take  her  to  California,  to  the 
foot-hills  where  the  air's  hot  and  dry,'  he  said,  'that's 
the  only  chance  you've  got.'  So  we  sold  everything  and 
left  Virginia  and  came  over  here.  We  tried  several 
places,  but  some  of  them  didn't  seem  to  suit  her,  and 
in  others  they  asked  too  high  rents.  We  had  hardly 
anything  left.  And  then  we  just  came  here  and  set- 
tled on  that — on  our — on  your — "  She  came  to  a 


64  THE  PIONEER 

stammering  stop  and  then  ended  desperately — "in  that 
empty  cottage  over  there." 

The  Colonel  rose  and  walked  to  the  balcony  rail. 
He  stood  for  a  moment  with  his  back  toward  her, 
then  slowly  wheeled  and  approached  her.  She  had 
risen  and  was  looking  at  him  with  a  perplexed  ex- 
pression. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand.  "I'll 
be  up  this  afternoon.  Will  between  four  and  five  do  ?" 

She  considered  as  a  town  lady  might  whose  day 
was  full  of  engagements.  She  was,  in  fact,  specu- 
lating as  to  whether  she  and  her  sister  would  be 
free  from  the  domestic  tasks  which  filled  their  waking 
hours. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  nodding,  "that'll  be  a  very  good 
time.  Mother  rests  and  we — we  are  busy  in  the  early 
part  of  the  afternoon." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  as  he  walked 
down  the  steps  beside  her  to  the  gate,  again  expressed 
her  pleasure  at  having  found  him. 

"June  told  me  what  you  looked  like,"  she  said  over 
the  gate,  eying  him  thoughtfully  as  if  she  intended 
giving  June  her  opinion  of  the  stranger's  appearance. 
"So  I  knew  if  you  were  anywhere  round  I'd  find 
you." 

She  smiled  a  last  good-by  and  turned  away  to  the 
walk  under  the  locusts.  The  Colonel  went  back  to 
his  seat  on  the  balcony.  He  lit  a  fresh  cigar  and  sat 
there  smoking  till  Mitty  came  to  summon  him  to  the 
midday  dinner. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  OLD  LOVE 

At  half-past  four  he  was  walking  through  the  dust 
toward  the  cottage.  The  main  feeling  in  his  heart 
was  dread.  But  he  could  not  disregard  Alice's  sum- 
mons— Alice's  dying  summons,  he  felt  them  to  be. 
He  tried  to  prepare  himself  by  thinking  that  nearly 
a  quarter  of  a  century  had  passed,  and  what  havoc 
it  must  have  wrought.  But  he  saw  only  the  face  of 
the  girl  he  had  loved,  fresh  and  sweet,  as  it  had  been 
when  he  had  bidden  her  good-by  on  the  steamer  on 
a  morning  full  of  sun  and  hope,  twenty-one  years 
ago. 

He  had  left  the  town's  main  street  behind  and  was 
now  walking  on  a  narrow  footpath  beside  the  road 
which,  on  one  side,  skirted  his  own  land.  A  still, 
scorching  warmth  had  possession  of  the  hour.  The 
landscape,  glazed  with  heat,  seemed  to  faint  under 
the  unwinking  glare  of  sun.  From  the  parched  grass- 
land and  the  thickets  of  chaparral,  pungent  scents 
arose — the  ardent  odors  that  the  woods  of  foot-hill 
California  exhale  in  the  hot,  breathless  quiescence 
of  summer  afternoons. 

His  unseeing  eye  passed  over  the  rise  and  fall  of 
the  rich  tract  he  had  held  so  negligently.  The  broken 
65 


66  THE  PIONEER 

fence  beside  him  divided  an  ocher-colored  expanse 
of  uncultivated  land  from  the  road.  The  air  came  over 
it  in  glassy  waves,  carrying  its  dry,  aromatic  perfume 
to  his  nostrils.  On  its  burnt  expanse  a  few  huge 
live-oaks  rose  dark  and  dome-like,  their  shadows, 
black  and  irregular,  staining  the  ground  beneath 
them.  Beyond  the  chaparral  swept  up  the  Hillside, 
a  close  growing  wall  of  variegated  green  where  the 
manzanita  glittered  amid  duller  foliage.  A  splintered 
edge  of  rock  broke  slantingly  through  the  thicket,  rose 
and  passed  like  a  bristling  crest  over  the  top  of  the 
hill,  where  the  pines  lifted  their  plumy  heads.  It  was 
the  "outcrop"  of  the  ledge — that  inconsistent  and  ill- 
regulated  ledge,  the  promises  of  which  had  made 
a  town  of  Foleys  and  then,  being  unfulfilled,  had  left 
the  town  to  ruin. 

But  the  Colonel  saw  none  of  these  things.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  turn  of  the  road  just  beyond. 
As  he  remembered,  you  could  see  the  cottage  from 
there.  And  as  he  gained  and  passed  it,  the  low 
bulk  of  the  little  house  broke  upon  his  sight.  It  was 
shrouded  in  vines,  carefully  trained  over  the  project- 
ing roof  of  its  balcony  so  that  they  hung  from  its 
edge  in  a  fringe  of  waving  tendrils.  Around  and 
beyond  it,  the  juicy,  violent  green  of  a  vineyard  ran 
into  the  dryness  of  the  untilled  land,  and  the  even 
emerald  rows  and  dark,  loamy  stripes  of  a  garden 
lay  like  a  piece  of  carpeting  between  the  vine- 
yard and  the  house.  Its  look  of  thrifty  habitation 
came  like  a  shock  upon  his  memory  of  its  ruinous 


THE  OLD  LOVE  67 

neglect  when  he  had  last  seen  it.  Even  the  gate,  that 
he  remembered  hung  dejected  from  one  hinge,  had 
been  mended;  the  rose  bushes  that  had  thrown  long 
festoons  across  the  path  had  been  clipped  and  tied 
to  restraining  poles.  These  were  "the  improvements" 
upon  which  the  squatter  based  part  of  his  claim. 

The  Colonel's  hand,  trembling,  raised  the  gate  latch 
with  a  click.  As  he  did  so  he  heard  a  sound  from 
the  balcony,  and  the  younger  girl,  who  had  intro- 
duced herself  to  him  as  Rosamund  Allen,  ran  down 
the  steps  that  led  from  it  and  advanced  along  the 
path  to  meet  him.  Her  hat  was  off  and  he  saw  that 
she  had  thick,  fair  hair,  its  ashen  blondness  streaked 
with  strands  of  a  coarse,  bright  gold. 

"Here  you  are,"  she  cried  with  her  easy,  friendly 
manner.  "We  had  just  begun  to  expect  you.  Isn't 
it  hot?" 

She  fell  into  step  beside  him  and  they  walked 
slowly  up  the  little  path.  The  cottage  at  first  pre- 
sented to  his  gaze  only  one  end  cut  into  by  a  single 
window.  As  they  drew  nearer  he  saw  the  length 
of  its  balcony,  and  that  the  vine  he  had  noticed 
was  a  grape,  its  thick-twisted  stalk  running  up  to 
the  roof  like  a  pillar,  its  leafage  engarlanding  the  bal- 
ustrade. A  few  steps  led  to  the  balcony  from  the 
walk.  He  saw  the  black  square  of  an  open  door-way 
and  near  this,  sitting  close  to  the  leaf-trimmed  balus- 
trade, a  shawled  female  figure  in  a  lounging  chair. 

His  eye  fell  on  it  and  he  involuntarily  stopped. 
The  girl  beside  him  suddenly  jerked  his  sleeve. 


68  THE  PIONEER 

"That's  mother,"  she  said  in  a  hurried  whisper. 
"Take  care.  She  can  see  us.  Now  don't  look  sur- 
prised— "  then  raising  her  voice  a  little  she  said: 

"Mother  dear,  here's  Colonel  Parrish." 

The  Colonel,  as  he  mounted  the  stairs,  took  off  his 
hat  and  held  it.  The  woman  in  the  chair  was  facing 
him.  From  the  descending  folds  of  the  many  loose 
wrappings  that  hung  about  her  emaciated  figure, 
her  head  rose,  the  face  looking  at  him  with  still, 
eager  interest.  She  gave  a  little  smile  and  a  waxen 
hand  of  skeleton  thinness  emerged  from  the  folds 
of  her  shawls. 

"Jim  Parrish !"  she  said  in  a  sweet,  husky  voice, 
then  looking  into  his  face  with  eyes  of  mild,  uncon- 
scious friendliness,  she  said  softly,  "Jim." 

He  would  never  have  known  her  till  he  heard  the 
voice  and  saw  the  smile.  They  were  the  same.  The 
old  dimple  had  disappeared  and  a  wrinkle  had  taken 
its  place.  The  eyes,  the  clear,  greenish-brown  eyes, 
were  sunken  into  dark  caverns,  the  satiny  skin  grown 
loose  and  sallow.  Yet  it  was  Alice,  Alice  old  before 
her  time,  Alice  sick,  Alice  dying. 

He  turned  round  and  found  a  chair,  for  the  moment 
not  daring  to  speak.  He  was  conscious  of  the  figure 
of  Rosamund  walking  toward  the  garden  dragging 
a  serpent-like  length  of  hose  behind  her.  Then  he 
placed  the  chair  close  to  the  sick  woman  and  sat 
down.  To  him  it  was  a  moment  that  he  had  thought 
of  in  dark  reveries,  and  even  in  thought  found  too 
painful.  Now  he  was  conscious  that  there  was  a  tran- 
quillity about  it,  an  absence  of  tension,  which  was  due 
to  Alice.  Her  manner  suggested  nothing  but  a  peace- 


THE  OLD  LOVE  69 

ful  recollection  of  old  friendship.  Was  it  that  the 
near  approach  of  death  was  wiping  out  all  the  dis- 
turbing and  cruel  emotions,  all  the  biting  memories, 
that  belonged  to  life? 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  little  affectionate  smile 
as  a  sick  sister  might. 

"It's  so  queer  it  being  you,"  she  said.  "When  June 
told  me  I  couldn't  believe  it.  After — after — how 
long  is  it,  Jim?" 

"Twenty-one  years,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  twenty-one  years,"  she  repeated.  "How  time 
flies!  And  what  a  lot  has  happened  in  those  twenty- 
one  years.  You're  rich,  they  say.  And  your  hair's 
quite  white,  but  I'd  have  known  you  anywhere.  You're 
not  much  changed." 

She  continued  to  look  at  him  with  the  same  gentle, 
softly  exploring  air.  He  had  had  an  idea  that  even 
in  death  he  would  see  shame  and  remorse  in  her  eyes, 
but  they  were  as  devoid  of  either  as  though  he  had 
never  been  other  than  a  girlhood  friend. 

"It  was  so  odd  your  just  happening  on  June  that 
way.  She  says  you  were  so  kind  to  her,  she  felt 
immediately  you  were  her  friend.  Poor  little  June! 
It  was  such  an  amusement  for  her  that  evening.  She's 
not  had  much  pleasure  of  that  kind.  And  she's  twenty 
now,  just  the  age  when  a  girl  longs  for  a  little  of 
the  good  times  of  life." 

"She's  very  like  you,"  he  answered,  "it — it — "  he 
was  going  to  say  "shocked  me,"  but  he  had  a  feeling 
she  would  not  understand  him.  "It  surprised  me," 
he  said  instead. 

"Oh,  she's  very  like  me.     Every  one  sees  it.     Her 


70  THE  PIONEER 

father  says  she  is  just  a  replica  of  what  I  was  when 
he  first  knew  me.  And  she's  such  a  sweet,  loving 
little  thing.  You  don't  know  how  they  work  here — 
and  with  me  to  take  care  of.  God  has  blessed  me  in 
my  children,  Jim." 

She  turned  her  large,  sunken  eyes  on  him,  their 
somberness  lit  by  the  fire  of  her  maternal  passion. 

"They  are  the  best  girls  in  the  world,"  she  said. 

"Then  you've  been  happy,  Alice?"  he  suddenly 
asked. 

"Happy!"  she  echoed.  "Oh,  yes,  always  happy  ex- 
cept when  our  boy  died.  That  was  our  sorrow.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  ever  heard  of  it.  He  was 
just  a  baby,  but  he  was  our  only  son.  A  beautiful 
boy.  He  was  John  Beauregard  Allen,  too." 

The  Colonel  made  no  comment,  but  she  did  not 
notice  it,  engrossed  in  her  own  recital. 

"Of  course  we've  not  been  very  successful,  especial- 
ly of  late  years.  But  poverty's  not  so  bad  when 
you've  got  those  you  love  around  you.  And  we've 
been  like  a  little  company,  close  together,  always 
marching  shoulder  to  shoulder — 'a  close  corporation,' 
Beau  calls  it.  We've  had  bad  luck  of  all  kinds,  but 
you  can  bear  bad  luck  when  you're  all  together." 

The  past,  the  bitter,  terrible  past  was  dead  to  her. 
She  had  probably  never  understood  what  it  had  been 
to  him.  Now  twenty  years,  of  love  and  struggle  had 
almost  obliterated  it  from  her  memory,  and  the  com- 
ing of  death  had  wiped  away  its  last  faint  traces. 

"You  have  been  blessed,  Alice,"  he  said  in  a  low 
-voice.  "Life  has  fulfilled  all  your  expectations." 

"Not  all,"  sjhe  jgtaswered.     "What  doesn't  matter 


THE  OLD  LOVE  71 

for  yourself  matters  for  your  children.  It's  hard 
for  me  to  see  them  living  here,  and  this  way — "  she 
made  a  gesture  which  swept  the  garden  and  the 
vineyard.  "That's  hard  for  a  mother,  a'  mother  who 
was  bred  differently  and  bred  them  for  something 
different.  I  educated  them  myself,  Jim.  They're 
not  like  the  country  girls  around  us.  They're — " 
she  paused  a  moment  and  then  said  with  an  air  of 
sad  solemnity — "the  children  of  a  lady  and  a  gentle- 
man." 

"Any  one  can  see  that,"  he  murmured,  "and  they're 
happy  too." 

He  did  not  know  what  else  to  say.  He  could  not 
condole  with  her.  In  her  poverty  and  sickness  she 
had  fulfilled  the  purposes  of  her  life,  lived  it  with  a 
passionate  completeness  as  he  had  never  done.  The 
fullness  of  it,  compared  to  the  barren  emptiness  of 
his,  augmented  the  sense  of  bleak  loneliness  that  lay 
heavy  at  his  heart. 

"They're  young,"  she  continued,  "they've  not 
known  much  better.  Our  bad  times  began  when  they 
were  still  little.  But  I — well,  before  I  was  sick  it 
was  different.  I  helped  them  and  I  was  a  companion, 
not  a  care.  Virginia  City,  too,  was  a  place  where, 
as  they  grew  older  there  would  have  been  more 
amusement  for  them.  They'd  have  had  a  better 
chance." 

She  paused,  her  lids  drooping,  an  air  of  musing 
melancholy  on  her  face.  Then  she  raised  her  eyes 
and  looked  at  him. 

"Who  is  there  for  them  to  marry  here?"  she  asked. 

"Marry!" — the   Colonel  had  not  thought  of  that. 


72  THE  PIONEER 

"They're  very  young  for  that  yet,  aren't  they?"  he 
stammered. 

"Young?    Yes,  perhaps.    But  June  is  twenty  now." 

She  let  her  head  drop  back  on  the  cushions  be- 
hind it,  and  turned  it  slightly  away  from  him  so 
that  he  could  see  her  in  profile.  Her  hair  was  dress- 
ed in  the  fashion  of  her  youth,  parted  and  drawn 
down  sleekly  over  the  tips  of  her  ears.  Seen  thus, 
the  emaciation  of  her  cheeks  partly  concealed,  her 
face  caught  him  with  its  sudden  look  of  familiarity. 
For  a  moment  the  veil  of  years  was  jerked  back  and 
he  saw  his  old  sweetheart.  He  gave  a  murmured 
exclamation  and  leaned  nearer  to  her,  a  word  of 
tenderness  trembling  on  his  lips.  Simultaneously  she 
turned  toward  him,  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts. 

"I  was  twenty-four  when  I  married,"  she  said. 
"People  then  thought  that  was  quite  old." 

He  turned  away  his  head,  unable  to  reply,  and  she 
went  on  in  her  unconscious  egotism. 

"I  want  them  to  marry.  It's  the  only  life  for  a 
woman.  And  I  have  been  so  happy  in  my  married 
life,  always,  from  the  first  till  now." 

A  slight  smile  touched  her  lips  as  her  eyes,  softened, 
with  memories,  looked  back  over  a  life  that  love  had1 
ennobled. 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  him.  For  the  first  time  in 
the  conversation  she  seemed  to  transfer  her  interest 
from  her  own  affairs  to  his. 

"You  never  married?"  she  said.  "That  was  a  pity. 
Life's  only  half  lived  without  those  ties." 

"Oh,  Alice!"  he  answered  with  a  groan,  and  rising 
he  moved  to  the  top  of  the  steps. 


THE  OLD  LOVE  73 

"I  was  mean  to  you  that  time,  long  ago,"  she  said 
behind  him.  "But  that  was  all  in  the  past.  That's 
all  forgotten  now — forgotten  and  forgiven,  isn't  it?" 

For  the  moment  he  made  no  reply  and  she  repeated 
in  what  seemed  an  absent  tone, 

"Forgotten  and  forgiven.  It's  all  so  far  away  now ; 
such  years  ago.  So  much  has  happened  in  between. 
It's  like  another  life,  looking  back  on  it." 

"Yes,  all  forgiven,"  he  said,  "there's  no  anger  with 
real  "love." 

"Of  course  not,"  she  agreed,  "and  time  smooths 
away  everything.  Isn't  it  pretty  now,  with  the  shad- 
ows lengthening  out  that  way?" 

They  looked  over  the  expanse  where  the  low  sun's 
rays  were  painting  the  already  brilliant-hued  land- 
scape with  a  wild  flare  of  color.  The  darkness  of  the 
oaks  was  overlaid  with  a  golden  gilding,  the  dry  grass 
looked  orange. 

"Have  you  seen  the  girls'  garden?"  she  asked. 
"They  did  it  all  themselves  and  they  raise  enough 
vegetables  for  us  and  some  to  sell.  They  sell  the 
grapes,  too.  Last  summer  they  made  fifty  dollars 
with  their  grapes." 

So  "the  improvements"  were  of  some  practical 
good.  The  Colonel  saw  the  word  dancing  in  the  air 
before  him. 

"But  it's  hard  to  see  them  working  so.  In  summer 
they're  up  and  out  at  six.  It  doesn't  seem  right  to 
me — their  father's  daughters.  Their  grandmother — 
Beau's  mother — had  six  house-slaves  for  her  own 
private  use,  and  I,  before  my  father's  death,  had  a 
French  governess." 


74  THE  PIONEER 

A  step  on  the  path  prevented  him  from  replying. 
Rosamund  came  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  her 
face  flushed,  a  hoe  in  her  hand,  which  he  now  saw 
to  be  earthy.  She  had  an  anxious  air. 

"Mother,  are  you  tired,  dear?"  she  said,  mounting 
the  steps.  Then  turning  to  the  visitor : 

"Mother  goes  in  before  the  sun  sets.  It  gets  cool 
so  suddenly.  Just  the  moment  the  edge  of  the  sun 
gets  down  behind  the  hill,  the  night  comes  up,  and 
it's  bad  for  her  to  breathe  that  air." 

The  Colonel  assured  her  he  was  just  about 
to  take  his  leave.  The  invalid  made  no  demand  for 
him  to  stay.  Sitting  huddled  among  her  shawls  she 
looked  wan  and  shrunken.  He  felt  that  the  calm 
interest  of  her  attitude  toward  him  had  now,  from 
fatigue,  turned  suddenly  into  indifference.  He  fal- 
tered some  words  of  farewell  to  her,  his  hand  out. 
Hers,  feeling  in  his  warm,  strong  grasp  like  a  bundle 
of  twigs,  was  extended  and  then  limply  withdrawn. 

"Good-by,"  she  said,  turning  to  follow  her  daugh- 
ter's movements  with  a  waiting,  dependent  eye, 
"won't  you  come  again  before  you  go?" 

He  murmured  an  assent  from  the  top  steps,  but 
he  would  leave  in  a  day  or  two  at  the  longest. 

"The  girls  like  seeing  you  so  much ;"  now  she 
looked  at  him  with  some  animation.  "And  they  have 
so  little  pleasure." 

"Why,  mother,"  said  Rosamund  in  half-laughing 
protest,  "that  sounds  as  if  Colonel  Parrish  was  a  sort 
of  circus,  just  here  to  amuse  us." 

The  Colonel  was  nearly  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps. 
With  some  last  conventional  sentences  of  farewell,  he 


THE  OLD  LOVE  75 

raised  his  hat  and  turned  toward  mother  and  daugh- 
ter for  a  final  glance.  They  were  smiling  at  Rosa- 
mund's words,  both  looking  at  him  to  return  his  bow 
with  perfunctory  politeness.  When  he  turned  from 
them  he  could  hear  their  voices,  low  and  full  of  a 
close  and  different  form  of  interest,  speaking  of  the 
adjustment  of  the  invalid's  shawls,  the  window  by 
which  her  chair  should  be  placed. 

He  was  half-way  down  the  path  to  the  gate  when 
a  sound  of  suppressed  singing  caught  his  ear.  Turn- 
ing in  its  direction  he  saw  coming  down  through  a 
narrow  path  in  the  chaparral  a  fine  red  and  white 
cow,  and  following  it,  June  Allen.  She  was  singing 
in  a  crooning,  absent-minded  way,  at  intervals  flick- 
ing the  flanks  of  the  cow  with  a  long  alder  branch 
she  carried,  stripped  of  all  its  leaves  save  two  at  the 
top.  As  she  approached  him  she  stopped '  singing, 
struck  the  cow  with  the  branch,  and  began  in  a 
thoughtful  way  to  talk  to  herself. 

The  attraction  she  had  exercised  over  him  fell  on 
him  again  the  moment  he  saw  her.  The  very  way 
she  appeared  to  be  conversing  to  herself  seemed  to 
him  to  be  imbued  with  a  quaint,  unconscious  charm, 
such  as  a  child  possesses.  With  his  mind  full  of 
the  gloom  and  pain  of  his  interview  with  Alice,  he 
yet  paused,  eying  the  approaching  figure.  As  he 
stood  watching  her,  she  looked  up  and  saw  him. 

She  gave  a  loud  exclamation  and  her  face  became 
illumined  with  pleasure.  Administering  to  the  cow 
a  smart  stroke  with  her  switch,  she  crowded  by  it  and 
ran  forward  over  the  dry  grass  into  which  the  ver- 
dure of  the  garden  intruded. 


76  THE  PIONEER 

"Oh,  how  lovely  for  me  to  meet  you !"  she  cried 
as  she  came  up  to  him  with  an  extended  hand.  "I 
never  thought  I'd  have  such  luck." 

Her  hand  nestled  into  his ;  her  face  smiling  at  him 
was  charged  with  an  almost  fond  delight. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  a  flatterer,  young  woman,"  he 
said,  again  noting  the  astonishing  likeness  that  had 
so  shaken  him  the  evening  before.  "I  don't  think 
you're  really  glad  to  see  me,  or  why  should  you, 
when  you  knew  I  was  coming,  go  off  with  the  cow?" 

"That  was  a  bargain,"  she  said,  "I  wanted  to  stay 
and  see  you  just  as  much  as  Rosamund  did.  But  as 
I  had  the  party  last  night  we  agreed  that  it  was  only 
fair  I  should  go  after  Bloss  this  evening,  and  Rosa- 
mund should  stay  and  take  care  of  mother  and  see 
you." 

If  any  commentary  was  needed  on  the  deadly  mo- 
notony of  their  existence,  the  Colonel  felt  that  it  was 
now  given.  That  two  young  and  attractive  girls 
should  regard  him  as  a  matter  of  such  deep  interest 
was  proof  to  him  of  the  unrelieved  dreariness  of  their 
lives. 

"So  you  went  for  Bloss,"  he  said,  looking  at  the 
cow  which  had  now  passed  them  and  was  moving 
forward  with  a  lurching  swing  toward  a  shed  in  the 
background. 

"Yes,  we  go  for  her  alternate  nights.  She  wanders 
all  over  the  tract  by  day  and  in  the  evening  we've 
sometimes  a  hunt  before  we  can  get  her." 

They  were  both  looking  at   Bloss,  who  suddenly 


THE  OLD  LOVE  77 

stopped,  stepped  heavily  on  the  garden  border,  and 
began  to  bite  a  hole  in  a  row  of  neat,  green  leaves. 

"Bloss!"  his  companion  almost  shrieked,  "you  im- 
pudent, desperate  cow!  Did  you  ever  see  such  an 
impertinent  thing?" 

And  she  ran  toward  Bloss,  who,  feeling  the  switch 
suddenly  on  her  flanks  gave  up  the  happy  dream  of 
an  evening  feast  of  young  lettuce  and  directed  her 
course  once  more  toward  the  shed.  June  followed 
her,  calling  imploringly  over  her  shoulder, 

"Please  don't  go  yet,  oh,  please  don't!  I  do  want 
to  see  you  for  a  moment,  but  I've  got  to^put  this  mis- 
erable animal  in  her  stable,  or  she'll  spoil  the  garden. 
Please  wait." 

To  which  he  called  back: 

"All  right.  Don't  hurry.  I'll  stroll  down  to  the 
gate." 

And  he  moved  slowly  down  the  path  between  the 
pinioned  rose-bushes,  looking  through  the  barring  of 
the  old  gate  at  the  dusty  road. 

He  had  not  to  wait  long.  He  was  standing  there 
gazing  down  the  road  when  he  heard  her  light  step 
and  hurried  breathing  as  she  ran  toward  him. 

"It  was  too  bad,"  she  said  as  she  came  to  a  pant- 
ing stand  beside  him,  her  alder  switch  still  in  her 
hand,  "but  I  couldn't  let  her  eat  those  lettuces. 
We've  had  a  lot  of  trouble  with  them  and  when 
they're  good  we  can  sell  them  as  far  as  Sonora." 

She  said  this  with  an  air  of  pride,  as  one  who 
vaunts  an  admired  accomplishment. 


78  THE  PIONEER 

"Do  you  like  gardening?"  he  asked,  and  then 
stopped.  From  the  house  came  a  sudden  sound  of 
coughing,  a  heavy,  racking  paroxysm.  The  girl's 
eyes  slanted  sidewise  as  she  stood  motionless,  listen- 
ing. She  remained  thus,  in  a  trance-like  quietude  of 
attention  till  the  sound  grew  fitful  and  then  ceased. 

"How  did  mother  strike  you?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

"I — she — "  he  blundered,  and  then  said  desper- 
ately: "Well,  she's  changed,  of  course,  but  after  a 
long  period  of  illness — " 

He  stopped.  Unfinished  sentences  save  more  oc- 
casions than  the  world  wots  of. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  she  said  eagerly,  seizing  on  even 
such  feeble  encouragement.  "And  she's  been  sick  for 
such  a  dreadfully  long  time,  ever  since  Virginia, 
more  than  four  years  now.  She's  thin,  though,  isn't 
she?" 

She  looked  anxiously  at  him. 

"Long  illnesses  are  apt  to  make  people  thin,"  he 
said,  turning  away  his  head. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,  especially — "  She  too  left  her 
sentence  unfinished.  For  a  moment  she  stood  look- 
ing down,  flicking  at  an  adjacent  rose-tree  with  her 
switch. 

"Tell  me  about  the  gardening,"  he  said,  seizing  on 
the  subject  as  the  one  uppermost  in  his  mind.  "How 
do  you  get  your  things  as  far  afield  as  Sonora?" 

"I'll  tell  you  about  that  later ;"  she  suddenly  seemed 
to  shake  off  her  anxieties  as  a  child  might.  Her 
clouded  face  turned  on  him  sparkling  with  new  ani- 


THE  OLD  LOVE  79 

mation,  "I'll  tell  you  all  about  that  another  time. 
Now — " 

He  interrupted  her: 

"But  there  may  not  be  another  time.  You  know 
I'll  be  leaving  soon." 

She  looked  amazed,  quite  aghast. 

"Leaving?"    she    exclaimed — "leaving    Foleys?" 

"Yes,  I  must  be  back  in  San  Francisco  in  a  few 
days.  And  it  takes  a  day  to  ride  from  here  to  Sac- 
ramento." 

"But — "  she  stopped,  looking  thoroughly  dashed. 
The  Colonel  wondered  what  was  in  her  mind. 

"But  not  to-morrow?"  she  asked,  drawing  near  to 
him  and  speaking  urgently,  "you'll  be  here  to-mor- 
row ?" 

"Yes,  I'll  be  here  to-morrow.  My  horse  won't  be 
able  to  take  the  ride  till  the  day  after.  He's  gone 
tender  on  his  forefoot." 

She  was  silent,  looking  down  on  the  path  and  ab- 
sently trailing  the  leaf-decked  tip  of  her  switch  in 
the  dust.  He  regarded  her  with  tender  amusement. 

"You  haven't  seen  the  spring  yet,"  she  said  abruptly 
without  raising  her  eyes. 

The  remark  was  startling.  It  was  the  discovery 
of  this  spring  which  had  led  to  the  unpleasantness 
with  the  squatter.  The  Colonel  would  probably  have 
gone  on  paying  the  taxes  and  letting  the  squatter 
live  on  his  premises  till  the  end  of  things,  if  the 
spring  had  not  waked  him  to  the  possibilities  of 
ownership.  He  colored  a  little.  For  the  first  time 
it  seemed  to  him  the  young  girl  had  shown  bad  taste. 


80  THE  PIONEER 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  haven't  seen  it.  I  didn't 
see  that  it  was  necessary.  I've  had  the  water  ana- 
lyzed. That  was  enough." 

"But  you  ought  to  see  it,"  she  continued,  still  look- 
ing at  the  end  of  the  switch.  "It's  a  wonderful 
spring.  Everybody  says  so.  I  discovered  it." 

Her  face,  as  she  began  speaking,  flushed  faintly 
and  then  deeper.  When  she  had  finished  the  color 
was  spread  over  it  in  a  clear  transparent  blush. 

"I  doubt  whether  I'll  be  able  to  get  there,"  he  re- 
plied with  just  a  trace  of  stiffness  in  his  manner. 
"It's  quite  a  walk,  I  understand,  and  it's  so  hot — " 

She  suddenly  raised  her  eyes  and  moved  toward 
him,  her  look  one  of  flushed  embarrassment,  but  her 
manner  urgent  and  determined. 

"I'll  take  you  there,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "I  know 
a  way  that's  quite  shady,  a  path  hardly  anybody 
knows  of.  I  found  it,  the  spring  and  the  path  both, 
and  I  would  s.o  like  to  show  it  to  you." 

Her  voice  fell  to  the  key  of  coaxing,  which  was  be- 
lied by  her  countenance,  full  of  a  keen,  waiting  anx- 
iousness.  She  seemed  to  the  man  to  be  tremulously 
hanging  on  his  word  of  consent. 

"I  guess  I'll  have  to  go,"  he  said,  looking  down 
at  her  with  eyes  from  which  all  disapproval  had 
gone.  "I'll  come  up  here  for  you — let's  see!  The 
late  afternoon's  the  best  time  because  it's  cooler.  Say 
five.  How's  that?" 

"Here?"  she  said,  looking  away  uneasily.  "No, 
don't  come  here.  You  know — "  she  drew  closer  to 
him,  and  resting  her  finger-tips  on  the  lapel  of  his 
coat  pressed  them  gently  against  his  chest,  half 


THE  OLD  LOVE  81 

whispering — "this  is  to  be  a  secret  expedition.  No 
one  must  know  about  it  but  us  two." 

The  Colonel  backed  away,  eying  her  with  tragical 
gravity  from  under  his  down-drawn  brows. 

"Look  here,  young  woman,"  he  said,  "what  are 
you  up  to?  Are  you  trying  to  kidnap  the  Colonel?" 

Her  dimple  came,  but  no  further  indication  of 
amusement  disturbed  the  fluttered  uneasiness  of  her 
countenance. 

"No,  no,"  she  said  quickly;  then  tilting  her  head 
to  one  side  and  looking  at  him  cajolingly,  "but  how 
I  would  like  to!" 

"I  don't  think  it's  safe  for  me  to  go,"  he  answered. 
"I've  a  suspicion  you're  some  kind  of  wood  nymph 
or  fairy  who  steals  good-looking  young  men  like  me 
and  keeps  them  in  the  woods  for  playmates.  Can 
you  give  me  any  guaranty  that  I'll  reappear?" 

"I'll  lead  you  back  myself.  And  you  will  go? 
That's  settled.  Well,  listen: — down  the  road  before 
you  come  to  the  turn  there's  a  break  in  the  fence. 
It's  near  the  large  oak  that  throws  a  limb  over  the 
road.  I'll  be  there  waiting  for  you  at  half-past  four. 
Five's  too  late.  And  the  path  I  spoke  of  goes  up 
right  behind  the  oak  and  is  ever  so  much  shorter  than 
the  one  everybody  takes.  That's  this  way,  back  of 
the  cow-shed  and  the  garden." 

She  indicated  it,  and  both  turned  to  follow  the  di- 
rection of  her  pointing  finger.  As  they  stood  with 
their  backs  to  the  road  they  heard  a  heavy,  regular 
footfall  padding  through  the  dust.  The  girl  turned 
first,  and  her  quick,  half-frightened  ejaculation,  "It's 
father!"  made  the  Colonel  swerve  round  like  a 


82  THE  PIONEER 

weathercock.  It  was  too  late  for  him  to  escape. 
Beauregard  Allen  was  close  to  the  gate  and  was 
looking  at  him  with  a  somber,  unmoving  gaze. 

He  would  have  known  his  old  enemy  in  a  minute. 
But  yet  there  was  a  change,  subtile  and  demolishing 
as  that  which  had  made  Alice  a  stranger  to  him. 
The  debonair  arrogance  that  he  had  once  taken  for 
a  proud  self-respect  was  gone.  A  destruction  of  the 
upholding  sense  of  position  and  responsibility  had 
bowed  the  upright  shoulders  and  made  the  haughty 
hawk-eye  heavy  and  evasive.  John  Beauregard  Allen 
had  failed  in  life,  gone  down  step  by  step ;  not  in  one 
cataclysmic  rush,  but  gradually,  with  a  woman  and 
children  striving  desperately  to  hold  him  back. 

His  drinking  had  been  a  habit  of  recent  years,  a 
weakness  grown  of  ill-luck  and  despondency.  It 
showed  in  a  coarsened  heaviness  of  feature,  a  red- 
dened weight  of  eyelid.  He  wore  a  pair  of  loose, 
dusty  trousers,  thick,  unbrushed  boots,  the  blue-and- 
white  cotton  shirt  of  the  country-man,  and  an  unbut- 
toned sack-coat  that  sagged  from  his  bent  shoulders. 
A  grizzled  brown  beard  straggled  over  his  breast, 
and  the  hat  pushed  back  from  his  forehead  showed 
hair  of  the  same  color.  Yet  there  still  lingered  about 
him  the  suggestion  of  the  man  of  breeding  and  edu- 
cation, and  once  again  upright  with  the  hope  of  life 
restored  to  him,  he  would  have  been  a  fine  looking 
man. 

He  knew'  who  the  Colonel  was  before  he  turned, 
but  he  too  realized  there  was  no  possibility  of  escape. 
In  that  one  moment  before  his  eye  challenged  that 
of  his  old  adversary,  he  had  recognized  the  situation 


THE  OLD  LOVE  83 

and  decided  on  his  course.  He  thrust  his  hands  into 
the  pockets  of  his  coat  and  tried  to  square  his  shoul- 
ders into  their  old  proud  poise.  As  his  glance  met 
the  Colonel's  he  withdrew  one  of  his  hands  from  his 
pocket  and  raised  his  hat. 

"How  d'ye  do,"  he  said  in  a  deep,  easy  voice ;  "how 
d'ye  do,  Parrish?  I  heard  you  were  here." 

The  savoir  faire  of  his  address  was  remarkable. 
His  eyes,  however,  conscious  and  ashamed,  showed 
his  discomfort  in  the  meeting.  The  Colonel  returned 
the  salute  and  the  two  men  stood  facing  each  other, 
the  gate  between  them. 

"Colonel  Parrish,"  said  June  in  an  embarrassed 
voice,  "came  to  see  mother.  She  had  such  a  nice 
talk  with  him.  He  says  he  doesn't  think  she's  so 
much  changed." 

"I  have  to  thank  you,"  said  the  father  with  a  faint 
reminiscence  of  his  old  grand  manner,  "for  your 
kindness  to  my  little  girl  last  evening.  June  tells  me 
you  introduced  Rion  Gracey  and  young  Barclay  to 
her.  That's  the  son  of  Simeon  Barclay,  I  suppose?" 

The  Colonel  said  that  it  was.  He  was  extremely  un- 
comfortable, and  after  the  manner  of  his  sex,  wanted 
to  escape  from  this  unpleasant  position  with  the  ut- 
most speed.  He  opened  the  gate  and  stepped  into 
the  road.  The  squatter  slowly  passed  through  the 
aperture  into  the  disputed  domain. 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you,  Parrish,"  he  said.  "We 
appreciated  it.  June  would  have  had  a  pretty  dull 
time  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you." 

The  Colonel  deprecated  all  thanks.  He  was  now 
in  the  road,  his  hat  raised  in  farewell.  He  had  no- 


84  THE  PIONEER 

ticed  that  Allen  made  no  allusion  to  his  wife  and 
thanked  Heaven  that  the  man  who  had  shown  him- 
self so  dead  to  other  decencies  had  enough  left  in 
him  for  that.  A  backward  glance  of  final  adieu 
showed  him  the  father  and  daughter  side  by  side  by 
the  gateway.  The  girl  was  smiling  at  him.  The 
man  stood  with  his  ragged  hat  ceremoniously  lifted 
over  his  heavy,  hang-dog  face. 


CHAPTER  VII 

UNCLE  JIM 

An  hour  before  the  time  set  by  June  Allen  to  go 
to  the  spring  the  Colonel  was  sitting  in-  his  room 
before  a  table  littered  with  papers.  They  were  the 
title  deeds  and  the  tax  certificates  of  the  Parrish 
tract.  They  represented  an  unmarred  record 
of  purchase  and  possession  from  the  date  of  ac- 
quisition to  the  present  time.  As  he  looked  them 
over  he  wondered  again  at  the  astounding  boldness 
of  Allen.  Had  he  relied  upon  the  rightful  owner's 
leniency  when  he  should  discover  that  the  claimant's 
wife  had  once  been  Alice  Joyce?  The  thought  called 
forth  an  angry  sentence  of  pain  and  disgust.  Per- 
haps so.  It  was  of  a  piece  with  Allen's  behavior. 
But— 

The  Colonel  rose  to  his  feet.  He  had  made  up 
his  mind  what  he  intended  to  do.  Allen's  baseness 
had  no  bearing  on  the  matter.  Alice  and  her  chil- 
dren were  all  that  concerned  him.  He  threw  the 
papers  into  the  table  drawer,  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  picking  up  his  hat,  left  the  room. 

There  were  many  breaks  in  the  fence — lengths  of 
it  were  entirely  down — but  the  one  June  had  selected 
as  the  place  of  rendezvous  was  easy  of  discovery  be- 
85 


86  THE  PIONEER 

cause  of  the  live-oak  that  grew  near  it.  The  great 
tree  cast  a  heavy,  twisted  limb  across  the  road,  mak- 
ing an  arch  of  foliage  almost  as  impervious  to  sun- 
beams as  a  roof.  A  narrow  path  made  a  pale,  me- 
andering line  through  the  grass  beyond  it,  and  then 
came  and  went,  red  as  a  scar,  through  the  shrubbery 
of  the  hillside.  As  the  Colonel  drew  near  he  saw 
June  sitting  on  the  ground  under  the  tree.  Her  fig- 
ure, clothed  in  a  dress  of  dull  blue,  made  a  harmo- 
nious note  of  color  in  the  gold,  bronze,  and  olive  of 
the  landscape. 

She  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  head  over  the  fence 
and  jumped  up  with  a  gesture  of  welcome.  Then 
as  he  stepped  through  the  gap  she  met  him  with  ex- 
tended hand. 

Viewed  at  close  range,  her  appearance  was  an  il- 
luminating commentary  on  a  poverty  which  could 
never  be  degraded  or  ignoble.  Nothing  could  have 
been  cheaper  or  poorer  than  her  scanty  cotton  gown 
or  her  straw  hat.  But  she  had  taken  pains  that  the 
ribbon  on  her  hat  should  match  the  tint  of  her  dress, 
and  the  old-fashioned  turn-over  collar  of  lace  which 
encircled  her  throat  was  arranged  with  a  dainty  pre- 
ciseness.  She  had  even  put  on  her  one  and  only 
pair  of  corsets — a  treasured  article  of  dress  reserved 
for  parties  and  the  Sabbath — so  unusual  was  the  oc- 
casion. The  Colonel  did  not  notice  these  delicacies 
of  detail.  He  only  saw,  as  any  other  man  would 
have  seen,  that  a  rare  distinguishing  fineness  marked 
her  despite  her  poor  apparel  and  coarsened  hands. 
It  would  have  taken  a  woman's  deeper  insight  to 
see  that  this  was  a  girl  in  whom  a  taste  for  all  that 


UNCLE  JIM  87 

was  luxurious,  costly  and  elegant  was  innate  arid 
ready  to  wake  at  the  first  call. 

They  followed  the  path  across  the  open  land  and 
then  began  ascending  through  the  chaparral,  the  girl 
leading.  The  shrubs,  which  were  low-growing,  of- 
fered no  shade,  and  the  sun,  though  slanting  to  the 
west,  followed  them  with  scorching  beams.  It  was 
by  no  means  a  gentle  climb  and  they  spoke  little.  At 
intervals  a  lizard  flicked  across  the  path,  and  an  oc- 
casional stirring  of  the  underbrush  told  of  the  steal- 
thy passage  of  a  snake.  From  the  whole  hillside 
aromatic  odors,  that  seemed  to  be  ascending  in  swim- 
ming undulations,  rose  into  the  heat,  not  sweet  and 
delicate  as  is  the  breath  of  gardens,  but  coarse,  pun- 
gent, almost  rank,  in  their  triumphant,  wild  vitality. 

In  an  opening  under  the  pines  they  paused  for  a 
rest.  The  Colonel  noticed  that  his  companion  was 
not  as  talkative  as  she  had  been  on  the  two  former 
occasions.  There  was  an  air  of  troubled  abstraction 
about  her.  She  indicated  notable  points  in  the  land- 
scape like  a  dutiful  cicerone,  but  the  intensity  of  in- 
terest she  had  displayed  in  arranging  the  trip  seemed 
gone.  He  wondered  if  she  had  revealed  to  some 
member  of  her  family  her  design  of  showing  him  the 
spring  and  had  been  reproved  for  it. 

The  last  portion  of  the  walk  was  again  through 
thickets,  up  a  hill  where  the  poison  oak  grew  close 
and  high,  and  then  among  larger  growths  of  bay  and 
alder,  with  the  Digger  pines  raising  their  dim  bluish 
shapes  among  the  more  juicy  greens.  Here  they  be- 
gan to  follow  a  faint  rill,  a  tiny  thread  that  broke  in- 
to a  shower  of  drops  over  roots  and  splinters  of 


88  THE  PIONEER 

stone.  Finally,  pushing  aside  intruding  boughs,  she 
led  him  into  an  opening  ringed  by  tall  pine  trunks, 
and  cried  triumphantly: 

"Here  it  is!  Do  you  wonder  no  one  ever  found 
it?" 

There  was  a  hollowing  out  of  the  bank  under  the 
eaves  of  a  large  pine  root,  and  here  the  spring  had  been 
bubbling  unnoticed  for  centuries.  A  delicate  fring- 
ing of  fern  hung  from  the  moist  earth  motionless  over 
its  reflection  in  the  small,  quivering  mirror.  Near 
by  there  was  an  outcropping  of  rock,  and  broken  bits 
had  been  used  to  pave  the  edge  where  the  crystal  lip 
of  water  trembled,  and  to  make  a  little  channel  for 
it  to  slip  down.  A  rusty  tin  cup  hung  on  a  dead 
bough,  and  the  girl  rinsed  it,  and  dipping  it  in  the 
clear  depths,  handed  it  to  him. 

"Try  it,"  she  said.  "It  tastes  quite  different  here 
among  the  pine  roots  with  the  smell  of  the  woods 
all  round." 

He  drank  it,  marveling  at  the  sharp,  acrid  tang. 
She  hung  the  cup  back  on  the  twig,  and  taking  off 
her  hat,  sat  down  on  a  bent  root  that  the  pine  above 
it  seemed  to  have  thrown  out  in  a  kindly  desire  to  be 
hospitable.  The  Colonel  subsided  on  to  a  flat  shoul- 
der of  rock,  rusted  with  lichen. 

"Hasn't  it  hidden  itself  in  a  pretty  spot?"  she  said. 
"And  didn't  it  hide  itself  well?  Coming  on  it  from 
the  other  side  you  never  would  have  suspected  a 
spring  was  here  among  the  roots  of  the  trees." 

"And  you  discovered  it?" 

She  nodded,  looking  down  into  the  tiny  basin. 


\ 


- 


UNCLE  JIM  89 

"I  traced  it  up  from  the  little  stream  that  runs  away 
from  it.  I  found  it  in  March,  one  day  when  I  was 
prowling." 

"Prowling!     What's  prowling?" 

"Prowling?"  she  smiled,  but  pensively,  her  eyes 
on  the  water.  "It's  just  wandering  about,  generally 
alone,  and  not  going  to  any  particular  place.  I've 
prowled  all  over  here.  I  can  lead  you  straight  to 
the  two  old  shafts  and  show  you  the  dumps  and  the 
remains  of  the  old  windlass.  They're  almost  en- 
tirely hidden  by  wild  grapes  and  things.  People  who 
don't  know  could  easily  fall  in  the  shafts;  one  of 
them's  quite  deep." 

It  was  now  her  companion's  turn  to  look  pensive. 
He  had  sunk  the  two  shafts,  and  in  them,  as  in  the 
property,  how  many  thousands  of  dollars  he  did  not 
like  to  think. 

"Those  shafts  were  made,"  he  said,  "fifteen  years 
ago  when  we  all  thought  you  had  only  to  turn  over 
a  few  shovelfuls  of  earth  and  find  your  fortune." 
He  struck  the  rock  with  his  hand  and  said  laughingly : 
"What  an  old  fraud  you've  been!" 

She  looked  at  him  without  returning  his  smile. 

"Colonel  Parrish,"  she  said  anxiously,  "did  you 
sink  those  two  shafts?" 

He  nodded,  once  more  surprised  at  her  indirect 
reference  to  his  ownership  of  the  land.  She  made 
no  reply,  but,  plucking  a  fern  growing  out  of  the 
earth  near  her,  began  slowly  to  shred  its  leaves  from 
its  stalk  and  sprinkle  them  on  the  surface  of  the 
water. 


90  THE  PIONEER 

"And,"  she  said  suddenly,  "you  intend  now,  quite 
soon,  to  build  a  hotel  back  here,  under  the  pines,  at 
the  top  of  the  hill,  don't  you?" 

That  she  should  disappoint  him  with  these  per- 
sistent and  almost  indecent  inquiries,  considering  the 
situation,  hurt  and  irritated  him.  It  was  so  out  of 
keeping  with  her  general  suggestion  of  something 
sensitive  and  girlishly  naive. 

"I  had  intended  building  a  hotel;  came  here  with 
trlat  intention.  But — "  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  said 
coldly,  "Don't  you  think  we'd  better  be  going  back 
again?  It's  quite  a  long  walk." 

"But?" — she  echoed,  unheeding  his  last  sentences — 
"but  what?" 

She  made  no  movement  save  to  clasp  her  hands 
on  the  broken  fern.  Her  face,  raised  to  him,  sud- 
denly was  pale  and  set  in  a  curious  tenseness  of  inquiry. 
It  moved  the  Colonel  strangely. 

"But  what?"  she  repeated  insistently.  "You  were 
going  to  say  something  else." 

"My  dear  little  girl,"  he  answered,  "don't  trouble 
your  head  about  these  things.  It's — it's — a  man's  dis- 
pute and  for  men  to  settle.  But  rest  assured  of  one 
thing,  you'll  not  suffer  by  it." 

"I!"  she  exclaimed;  "it's  not  I  that  matters.  But, 
Colonel  Parrish,  our  mother." 

She  stopped,  her  voice  quivering  like  a  taut  string. 

"Your  mother?"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  rising  in- 
flection. 

"You  see  how  it  is  with  her.  Let  us  stay.  Let 
us  stay  a  little  while  longer." 


UNCLE  JIM  91 

"Did  you  bring  me  up  here  to  ask  me  this?"  he 
said,  looking  steadily  at  her. 

"Yes.  I  wanted  to  see  you  somewhere  away  from 
the  house,  and  I  thought  the  spring  would  be  a  good 
excuse.  Talking  of  these  things  makes  me" — the 
tears  rose  to  her  eyes  and  stood  thick  in  them — 
"makes  me  do  like  this." 

They  ran  over  and  she  brushed  them  away  with 
her  hand. 

"You  can  see;  you  understand  about  mother,"  she 
went  on,  struggling  to  speak  clearly.  "It's  only  a 
question  of  time.  It's  nearly  the  end  of  everything. 
And  I  brought  you  up  here  to-day  to  ask  you  to  let 
us  stay — right  or  wrong — let  us  stay  till  then." 

Her  voice  broke  and  she  held  her  head  down,  try- 
ing to  suppress  her  sobs.  The  Colonel  turned  away, 
walked  to  where  the  tin  cup  hung,  took  it  off  its 
twig,  and  looked  into  it. 

"Don't  do  that,"  he  said,  his  voice  rough;  "for 
Heaven's  sake,  stop.  I'd  be  angry  with  you  for  ask- 
ing me  such  a  thing  if  you  weren't  so — so — I  don't 
know  what.  Of  course  you're  going  to  stay." 

"What?"  he  was  not  looking  at  her,  but  was  con- 
scious that  she  had  stiffened  both  in  mental  and  physi- 
cal fiber  at  the  word — "you're  going  to  let  us  stay?" 

"Of  course.  As  long  as  you  want,  always.  Don't 
talk  any  more  about  it." 

A  quick  sound  came  from  her,  and  he  heard  the 
rustle  of  her  dress  as  she  rose,  her  footsteps  on  the 
stone  near  him,  and  then  felt  her  beside  him.  She 
seized  the  hand  hanging  at  his  side,  pressed  it  against 


92  THE  PIONEER 

the  softness  of  her  bosom  and  against  her  cheek,  then 
dropped  it  with  a  murmur  of  broken  words. 

He  turned  on  her  bruskly.  Her  face  was  shin- 
ing with  tears,  but  she  was  smiling.  She  tried  to 
speak  to  him,  but  he  laid  a  finger  on  her  lips  and 
looked  at  her,  shaking  his  head. 

"Don't  say  any  more  about  it,"  he  said  after  a 
moment's  pause.  "I  can't  stand  this  sort  of  thing. 
I'm  not  used  to  it." 

She  gently  laid  her  hand  on  his  and  drawing  it 
away  unsealed  her  lips.  She  was  smiling  radiantly, 
her  dimple  deep.  And  for  a  moment  she  enveloped 
him  in  a  beaming  look  of  affection  and  gratitude. 

"There's  lots  I  want  to  say,  but  I  suppose  I  must 
be  obedient,"  she  murmured. 

"Of  course  you  must.  Come,  we  ought  to  be  going. 
Put  your  hat  on  or  you'll  get  all  freckled." 

She  went  back  to  the  spring  and  picked  up  her  hat. 
As  she  pulled  the  elastic  down  over  her  cropped  locks 
she  said  gaily : 

"I  feel  so  different  from  what  I  did  when  I  came  up 
— at  least  twenty  years  younger  and  fifty  pounds 
lighter." 

"You'd  better  not  forget  how  to  accomplish  that 
miracle,"  said  her  companion.  "Thirty  years  from 
now  you'll  probably  find  it  a  great  deal  more  to  the 
point  than  you  do  to-day." 

They  started  down  the  path,  laughing.  The  red 
eye  of  the  sun,  a  flaming  ball,  stared  at  them  between 
the  trunks  of  the  pines,  and  shot  long  pencils  of 
flushed  light  into  the  rustling  depths  of  the  thickets. 


UNCLE  JIM  93 

June  led  the  way  as  before,  but  she  was  a  different 
guide.  She  seemed  as  light-hearted  going  down  as 
she  had  been  oppressed  coming  up.  The  Colonel  was 
to  realize  later  how  ready  her  optimism  was  to  re- 
spond to  the  first  glimmer  of  cheer,  how  quick  and 
far  was  the  swing  of  the  pendulum. 

Coming  to  a  grassed  plateau  under  the  pines  they 
paused  for  a  moment's  rest.  From  the  high  crest  of 
ground  they  could  see  the  cottage  with  the  cultivation 
of  its  garden  cutting  into  the  untilled  land,  like  an 
island  of  green  floating  in  a  yellow  sea.  It  looked 
meaner  and  more  insignificant  than  ever  in  the  midst 
of  the  lazily  outflung  landscape  now  swimming  in  a 
bath  of  colored  light. 

The  Colonel  saw  in  imagination  a  house  he  owned 
in  San  Francisco  on  Folsom  Street.  He  had  bought 
it  as  a  favor  from  a  pioneer  friend  whose  fortunes 
were  declining.  It  was  the  stateliest  house  of  what 
was  then  a  street  of  stately  houses,  with  wide  win- 
dows, vine-draped  balconies,  and  scrolled  iron  gates 
shutting  out  the  turmoil  of  the  street.  The  thought 
had  been  in  his  mind  when  it  came  into  his  possession 
that  it  was  the  sort  of  house  he  would  have  given 
Alice,  and  the  still  more  sacred  thought  had  followed, 
that  his  children's  laughter  might  have  echoed 
through  its  halls.  Now  he  looked  down  on  a  hovel, 
also  his  property,  where  Alice  had  been  glad  to  find 
a  shelter,  and  in  which  her  daughter  had  prayed  that 
she  might  be  left  to  die !  Life  and  its  mysteries ! 
How  inscrutable,  how  awful,  it  all  was ! 

The  voice  of  June  at  his  side  roused  him. 


94  THE  PIONEER 

"Mother's  gone  in,"  she  said,  evidently  making 
these  small  domestic  comments  more  to  herself  than 
to  him,  "and  Rosamund's  getting  supper." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  he  asked,  glad  to  be 
shaken  from  his  thoughts.  "Have  you  got  second 
sight?  You're  such  a  little  witch  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit 
surprised  if  you  had." 

"You  don't  have  to  be  a  witch  to  see  the  smoke 
coming  out  of  the  chimney." 

A  faint  reek  of  smoke  curled  up  from  the  cottage 
roof  into  the  evening  air.  The  Colonel  looked  at  her 
with  a  sheepish  side  glance.  She  returned  it,  smiling 
in  mischievous  triumph. 

"I'm  afraid  we're  not  both  witches,"  she  said  sau- 
cily. 

The  rest  over,  they  continued  their  descent  by  a 
wider  path  in  parts  of  which  they  walked  side  by 
side,  talking  together  sometimes,  or  June  talking, 
for  she  was  very  loquacious  now,  while  her  com- 
panion listened.  At  the  end  of  a  description  of  their 
life  in  Virginia  City  he  said, 

"How  long  is  it  since  you've  been  in  San  Fran- 
cisco? Years,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  years  and  years.  I  was  born  there,  but  we 
left  when  I  was  a  child." 

"It  must  have  been  a  prodigious  length  of  time 
ago — in  the  glacial  period,  you  might  say.  Sometime 
you  and  Rosamund  must  come  down  there  and  visit 
me.  I'll  find  a  place  for  you  to  stay,  and  take  good 
care  of  you.  Would  you  like  it?" 

"Oh,  Colonel  Parrish!"     Words  failed  her.     The 


UNCLE  JIM  95 

path  was  wide  and  she  was  walking  beside  him.  He 
saw  her  eyes  shine. 

"I'd  see  to  it  that  you'd  have  a  good  time.  Lots  of 
parties  and  first-rate  partners.  You'd  never  sit  along 
the  wall  there.  The  fellows  would  be  just  breaking 
their  necks  to  dance  with  you.  And  theaters — you 
like  theaters,  don't  you?" 

"Theaters!"  she  fairly  gasped.  "I  saw  Maseppa 
in  Virginia,  and  it  was — oh,  I  haven't  got  the  words ! 
It  was  something  wonderful." 

"Well,  we'll  see  'em  all.  Better  forty  times  than 
you  saw  in  Virginia,  and  every  night  if  you  want. 
It'll  be  just  as  good  a  time  as  San  Francisco  and  the 
Colonel  can  give  two  girls  like  you  and  Rosamund." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  smiling.  She  returned 
the  look  and  said : 

"Why  are  you  so  good  to  us?  I  don't  understand 
it!" 

"Don't  try  to.  Never  exert  your  brain  in  need- 
less ways.  That's  a  fundamental  law  for  the  preser- 
vation of  health.  In  this  particular  case  I'd  be  good 
to  myself.  You  don't  know  what  it  would  be  for  me 
to  have  two  nice  girls  to  take  around.  I'm  a  lonely 
old  devil,  you  know." 

"Are  you?"  she  said  with  a  note  of  somewhat  pen- 
sive incredulity.  "You've  never  been  married,  have 
you  ?" 

"Nup,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"You'll  have  to  look  upon  us  as  your  daughters," 
she  continued,  "or  perhaps  your  nieces."  The  path 
was  narrow  and  she  looked  into  his  face  with  the 


96  THE  PIONEER 

glance  of  demure  coquetry  he  was  beginning  to  know 
and  watch  for.  "Which  would  you  prefer?" 

"Daughters,"  he  said  gruffly,  looking  into  the 
bushes. 

"But  we're  already  provided  with  a  father,"  she  re- 
plied. "And  it  would  be  such  a  pity  to  waste  you. 
Wouldn't  you  care  to  take  the  position  of  uncle? 
That's  vacant." 

"All  right,  uncle — Uncle  Jim." 

"Uncle  Jim,"  she  repeated  thoughtfully.  "It  seems 
funny  to  come  into  possession  of  your  first  uncle 
when  you're  twenty  years  old." 

There  was  a  bend  in  the  path  and  the  bushes  grew 
almost  across  it.  She  suddenly  quickened  her  speed, 
passed  him,  and  ran  on  before. 

"Come  on,"  she  called  over  her  shoulder.  "I'm  just 
hitting  the  trail  again." 

He  followed  her,  turned  the  bend,  and  pushing  the 
branches  aside,  saw  her  a  few  feet  ahead  of  him, 
standing  on  a  flat  stone  about  a  foot  high,  which 
directly  intercepted  the  path. 

"What  are  you  mounted  on  that  for?"  he  said, 
laughing.  "You  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  make  a 
speech." 

"That's  what  I'd  like  to  do,"  she  answered,  "but 
I  was  told  not  to,  and  I'm  very  obedient.  Come 
nearer — quite  close." 

He  approached,  a  little  puzzled,  for  he  saw  that 
she  was  suddenly  grave.  The  stone  raised  her  a  few 
inches  above  him,  and  as  he  drew  near  she  leaned 
down,  took  him  by  the  lapels  of  his  coat,  and  draw- 
ing him  close,  bent  and  kissed  him  softly  on  the  fore- 


UNCLE  JIM  97 

head.  Then  she  drew  back,  and  still  holding  him, 
looked  with  tender  eyes  into  his. 

"Uncle  Jim,"  she  said,  "that's  your  christening." 

The  next  moment  she  was  down  and  flitting  on 
ahead  of  him. 

"The  path's  very  narrow,"  she  called.  "You  must 
be  content  to  follow  the  oldest  living  inhabitant." 

At  the  gap  in  the  fence  he  bade  her  good-by.  To 
his  great  delight  she  caught  at  his  hesitating  sug- 
gestion that  she  should  occasionally  write  to  him  and 
tell  him  of  their  life  and  her  mother's  health.  He 
told  her  he  would  be  up  again,  he  thought,  some  time 
during  the  summer.  The  date  was  uncertain.  Then, 
with  her  hand  in  his,  she  said  with  a  wilful  shake 
of  her  head : 

"No,  not  a  Dios.  It's  hasta  maiiana,  Uncle  Jim. 
I  won't  have  it  anything  but  hasta  maiiana." 

"Well,  then,  hasta  manana,"  he  answered.  "And 
God  bless  you,  little  girl !" 

That  evening  Colonel  Parrish  went  to  see  Cusack. 
He  brought  with  him  the  title  deeds  and  tax  cer- 
tificates of  the  Parrish  tract.  They  lay  scattered  on 
the  office  table  on  which  the  Colonel  as  he  talked 
leaned  a  supporting  elbow.  The  interview  was  short, 
and  there  were  moments  when  it  was  heated,  till 
Cusack  realized,  as  he  afterwards  expressed  it  to  a 
friend,  "there  are  certain  kinds  of  fools  there's  no 
good  bucking  up  against."  The  Colonel  had  deter- 
mined to  recognize  the  squatter's  claim,  and  to  end 
all  further  litigation  by  making  a  legal  transfer  of 
the  property  to  Allen  by  means  of  a  quit-claim  deed. 
He  talked  down  argument  and  protest. 


98  THE  PIONEER 

"Why  the  devil  should  I  keep  the  place?"  he  vo- 
ciferated. "I'm  sick  of  paying  taxes  on  it  and  never 
getting  a  cent.  I've  sunk  thousands  in  it  and  not 
got  a  dollar  back.  It's  been  a  white  elephant  from 
the  first.  Allen's  welcome  to  it.  I'm  glad  to  get  it 
off  my  hands." 

"But  the  spring,"  Cusack  almost  wailed  in  the 
acuteness  of  his  disappointment,  "the  spring  and  the 
hotel !  They  were  going  to  raise  Foleys  from  the 
dead." 

"Spring !"  said  the  Colonel,  rising  and  taking  from 
his  pocket  a  fresh  cigar — "damned  little  picayune  tea- 
cup! That  spring  hasn't  power  to  raise  a  mosquito 
from  the  dead." 

"Did  you  expect  to  find  a  geyser?"  the  irritated 
lawyer  retorted. 

"I  didn't  expect  to  find  what  I  did  find,  you  can 
bet  on  that,"  said  his  client,  as  he  bent  forward  to 
apply  the  tip  of  his  cigar  to  the  lamp  chimney. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PRIZES  OF  ACCIDENT 

It  was  half-past  five  the  next  morning  when  Kit 
Carson  paced  away  from  the  hotel  stables  into  the 
rosy  daylight.  With  the  freshness  of  the  hour  on 
his  face  the  Colonel  passed  along  the  hushed  street 
and  then  out  into  the  red  road  between  its  clumps 
of  dusty  foliage. 

As  he  skirted  what  yesterday  had  been  his  own 
land  he  looked  on  it  with  a  new  eye.  It  could  be 
made  to  support  them  well.  No  matter  how  low 
Allen  might  sink  they  need  never  want  again.  The 
hilly  part,  where  the  spring  was,  could  be  sold  or 
leased  to  some  of  the  enterprising  city  hotel  men.  Or, 
if  they  objected  to  that,  they  could  increase  their 
market  gardening  to  the  dimensions  of  a  large  agri- 
cultural enterprise.  They  could  rent  to  a  rancher  a 
portion  of  the  rich,  uncultivated  land  now  lying  idle, 
and  thus  gain  an  income  sufficient  for  them  to  develop 
their  own  particular  domain.  To  people  of  thrift 
and  energy  the  possibilities  of  the  tract  were  large. 
Alice  could  die  in  peace.  Her  girls  were  provided 
for. 

As  the  cottage  came  into  view  the  rider  reined  up 
and  gazed  at  it.  No  smoke  issued  from  the  chimney. 
99 


too  THE  PIONEER 

They  all  still  slept.  In  the  crystal  stillness  of  the 
morning  it  looked  peacefully  picturesque,  half  veiled 
in  its  greenery  of  shrubs  and  vines.  The  air  about 
it  was  impregnated  with  the  delicate  breath  of  the 
roses  that  lined  the  path  from  the  gate  to  the  balcony. 

He  gave  a  slight  shake  to  his  rein,  and  Kit  Carson, 
who  had  been  impatiently  pawing  with  a  proud  fore- 
foot, moved  forward.  The  rider's  glance  wandered 
to  a  window  under  the  sloping  roof,  veiled  by  a  blue 
curtain.  Was  that  the  girls'  room?  The  girls!  The 
two  faces  rose  before  his  mental  vision  and  he  turned 
his  eyes  from  the  window  and  let  them  pierce,  far- 
seeing  and  steady — into  the  distance,  into  the  future. 
Before  he  came  to  Foleys  he  had  not  cared,  he  had 
not  dared,  to  look  into  the  future.  He  had  cowered 
before  its  emptiness.  Now  the  faces  of  the  sisters 
rose  s"oftly  bright  in  its  melancholy  obscurity,  the 
faces  of  Alice's  daughters — daughters  that  should 
have  been  his. 

A  week  after  he  reached  San  Francisco  he  had  a 
letter  from  June,  a  childish,  incoherent  letter,  full  of 
impassioned  terms  of  gratitude,  broken  into  by  dis- 
tressed comments  on  her  mother's  health.  Then,  in 
more  sprightly  vein,  she  told  him  of  how  Mr.  Bar- 
clay was  stopping  over  at  Foleys  for  a  few  days  and 
came  nearly  every  day  and  helped  them  in  the  gar- 
den, and  Mr.  Rion  Gracey,  riding  back  from  Foleys 
to  the  Buckeye  Belle  one  evening,  had  dropped  in  for 
a  visit,  and  stayed  to  supper. 

The  Colonel  seemed  to  see  her  as  she  wrote,  laugh- 
ing at  one  moment  and  then  stopping  to  dash  the  tears 
off  her  cheek  as  she  had  done  at  the  spring.  He  heard 


PRIZES  OF  ACCIDENT  101 

from  no  one  else.  Beauregard  Allen  had  accepted 
the  transfer  of  the  property  as  a  business  transac- 
tion, the  manner  in  which  his  adversary  had  desired 
him  to  accept  it.  To  his  friends  in  San  Francisco 
the  Colonel  explained  his  speedy  return  and  the 
dropping  of  the  case  as  he  had  done  to  Cusack.  It 
was  not  worth  the  time  and  trouble.  The  land  was 
remote,  the  spring  a  disappointment;  he  was  glad  to 
be  rid  of  it  all. 

Three  weeks  after  this,  sitting  alone  in  his  office, 
he  received  by  the  afternoon  mail  a  newspaper.  It 
was  the  Daily  Clarion,  an  organ  which  molded  pub- 
lic opinion  and  supported  a  precarious  existence  in 
Foleys.  Unfolding  the  flimsy  sheet  he  found  a 
marked  paragraph,  and  turning  to  it  he  saw  it  to 
be  Alice's  death  notice.  She  had  died  three  days  be- 
fore "at  the  residence  of  her  husband,  John  Beau- 
regard  Allen."  The  paper  slipped  from  his  hand 
to  the  floor  and  his  head  sank.  He  sat  thus  till  the 
twilight  fell,  alone  in  the  dim  office  where  the  golden 
letters  that  spelled  his  name — the  name  of  the  suc- 
cessful man — shone  faintly  on  the  window. 

That  same  afternoon  the  dead  woman's  husband 
and  children  returned  to  the  cottage  after  having 
committed  all  that  remained  of  her  to  the  grave.  Rosa- 
mund had  succumbed  to  the  strain  and  sorrow  of  the 
last  few  days,  and  gone  to  bed  prostrated  with  a 
headache.  Allen,  morose  and  speechless,  had  flung 
himself  in  a  chair  in  the  living-room  and  there  sat, 
a  heavy,  inert  figure.  He  had  drunk  heavily  during 
the  last  few  days  of  his  wife's  illness,  for  he  had 
always  loved  her,  and  in  his  weakness  of  heart  had 


102  THE  PIONEER 

fled  from  the  sight  of  her  suffering,  and  tried  to  find 
surcease  for  his  own. 

It  was  left  to  June  to  prepare  their  supper  and 
accomplish  the  toilsome  domestic  tasks  that  Rosa- 
mund shared  with  her.  With  a  dead  heart  she  set  out 
the  meal,  watered  the  garden,  and  finally  set  forth  in 
a  flare  of  sunset  to  find  Bloss  and  drive  her  home. 

The  cow  had  evidently  strayed  far.  June's  search 
led  her  to  the  spots  which  Bloss  was  known  to  fre- 
quent, but  she  could  find  no  trace  of  her.  Sometimes 
the  girl's  voice,  broken  and  hoarse  with  weeping, 
rose  on  the  rich  stillness  of  the  hour,  calling  to  the 
truant.  She  became  irritable,  exasperated  against  the 
animal,  who,  on  such  a  night  as  this,  while  her  heart 
was  bursting  with  sorrow,  ended  the  bitterness  of  the 
day  with  so  wearisome  a  hunt.  Finally,  exhausted 
by  long  hours  of  watching  and  the  fatigue  of  grief, 
she  burst  into  unrestrained  sobs.  With  her  face  shin- 
ing with  tears,  her  breast  convulsed,  she  tore  her  way 
through  thickets  and  scrambled  over  rocky  spurs,  ev- 
ery now  and  then  sending  up  a  quavering  cry  for  the 
strayed  cow.  At  length,  brushing  through  a  copse 
of  bay  and  alder,  she  came  on  the  torn  face  of  the 
hill  where  the  landslide  had  taken  place.  The  ground 
was  covered  with  a  debris  of  stones  and  dead  trees. 
Nature,  to  repair  the  damage,  was  already  hiding  the 
rawness  of  the  lacerated  expanse  under  a  veil  of 
small  sprouting  vegetation.  Here,  through  a  screen 
of  leaves,  she  at  last  caught  sight  of  Bloss'  red  and 
white  side. 

She  cried  to  the  cow,  who  gave  a  lazy  flip  of  her 
tail  but  no  other  sign  of  movement.  June's  irritated 


PRIZES  OF  ACCIDENT  103 

misery  gave  way  to  a  spasm  of  rage,  and  stooping, 
she  picked  up  a  handful  of  the  loose  pieces  of  stone 
strewn  about  her,  and  threw  one  at  the  runaway. 
It  struck  with  a  thud.  Bloss  gave  a  surprised  snort, 
and,  wheeling,  brushed  through  the  thicket.  June 
followed  her,  the  stones  pressed  in  a  clutching  hand 
against  her  breast,  one  now  and  then  launched  in 
the  direction  of  the  cow.  These  missiles,  combined 
with  the  thought  of  home,  appeared  to  animate  Bloss' 
leisurely  movements,  and  she  hastened  forward 
through  brush  and  over  rock  at  a  lolloping,  uncouth 
trot. 

The  dusk  was  settling  into  night  when  they  reached 
the  shed.  June's  tears  had  ceased,  but  the  abstrac- 
tion of  grief  held  her.  She  fastened  the  shed  door 
on  the  cow,  and  still  absently  clasping  three  or  four 
pieces  of  stone,  entered  the  house.  The  door  from 
the  balcony  gave  directly  into  the  living-room.  Here, 
just  as  she  had  left  him,  she  found  her  father. 

The  daughters  of  Beauregard  Allen  did  not  love 
him  with  the  same  fond  blindness  to  his  faults 
that  had  marked  his  wife.  In  the  grinding  pov- 
erty of  their  later  years  they  could  not  but  see  his 
apathy,  the  selfishness  of  his  heavy  discouragement, 
the  weakness  of  his  tendency  to  drink.  Though  the 
filial  sense  was  strong  in  them  and  the  example  of 
their  mother's  uncomplaining  devotion  one  that  they 
obediently  followed,  they  realized  that  their  father 
was  more  a  tottering  pillar  to  support  than  a  staff 
upon  which  to  lean. 

Now,  a  vague,  dark  bulk  in  trie  deserted  room,  so 
fitted  with  memories  of  the  dead  woman,  he  was  a 


io4  THE  PIONEER 

figure  of  heart-piercing  desolation.  His  daughter 
moved  to  the  table  and  said  gently: 

"Why,  father  dear,  are  you  still  sitting  in  the  dark? 
Why  didn't  you  light  the  lamp?" 

He  answered  with  an  inarticulate  sound  and  did 
not  move.  Setting  the  stones  on  the  table  June  drew 
the  lamp  toward  her  and  lit  it.  The  sudden  flood  of 
light  seemed  to  rouse  him.  The  chair  creaked  under 
his  weight  as  he  turned.  His  haggard  eyes  absently 
traveled  over  the  lamp  and  the  table  near  it  and 
finally  rested  on  the  scattered  fragments  of  rock. 
June  had  bent  down  to  look  at  the  wick  which  she 
was  carefully  adjusting,  when  she  heard  him  give  a 
suppressed  exclamation,  and  his  long  brown  hand 
entered  the  circle  of  lamplight  and  gathered  up  the 
stones.  The  wick  satisfactorily  arranged,  she  settled 
the  shade  and  turned  away.  Her  father  drew  his 
chair  closer  to  the  slanting  torrent  of  light,  and  hold- 
ing the  stones  directly  under  it,  leaned  forward,  scru- 
tinizing them  as  he  turned  them  about. 

''Where  did  you  get  these?"  he  said  without  look- 
ing up. 

She  told  him,  turning  again  toward  the  table,  ab- 
sently watching  him. 

"Near  the  hillside?  Just  there  where  the  piece  of 
the  hill  came  down?"  he  queried. 

"Yes,  along  the  ground  there.  It's  all  strewed 
with  stones  and  earth  and  roots.  There's  quite  a 
wall  of  rock  left  bare  and  these  bits  of  it  are  all  over. 
New  weeds  are  sprouting  everywhere.  I  suppose 
that's  what  took  Bloss  there." 

He  rose  and  going  to  a  book-case  took  out  a  hand 


PRIZES  OF  ACCIDENT  105 

magnifying  glass,  and  returning  to  the  light,  studied 
the  fragments  through  it.  Something  in  his  face  as 
he  bent  over  them,  struck  through  the  lethargy  of 
her  dejection. 

"Father,"  she  said,  drawing  near,  "what  are  they? 
What's  odd  about  them?" 

He  lifted  a  face  transfigured  with  excitement,  and 
leaning  forward,  laid  a  trembling  hand  on  hers. 

"It's  float,"  he  said,  "undeniable  float!  If  I'm  not 
mistaken  we've  got  the  ledge  at  last." 


END  OF  BOOK  I 


BOOK    II 
THE    TOWN 


CHAPTER   I 

DOWN    IN    THE   CITY 

In  the  darkness  of  the  early  November  night  Col- 
onel Parrish  rattled  across  town  in  a  hired  carriage. 
It  was  half -past  eight  when  he  left  his  rooms  (they 
were  a  fine  suite  on  a  sunny  corner  of  Kearney 
Street),  and  now  as  he  turned  into  Folsom  Street  he 
calculated  that  if  the  girls  were  ready  they  could 
be  en  route  by  nine  o'clock.  In  the  autumn  of  1870 
the  hours  for  evening  entertainments  were  still  early, 
and  the  particular  entertainment  to  which  the  Colonel 
intended  taking  June  and  Rosamund  Allen  was  one 
of  the  regular  receptions  which  united  the  aristoc- 
racy of  San  Francisco  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Ira 
Davenport. 

The  great  detached  bulks  of  the  buildings  that  the 
carriage  passed  gleamed  with  lights,  for  Folsom 
Street  was  still  the  home  of  the  elect.  From  the  arch 
of  lofty  porches  hall  lamps  cast  a  faint  gleam  into 
the  outer  darkness  of  shrubberies  and  lawns.  Through 
the  scroll-work  of  high  iron  gates  the  imbedded 
flags  of  the  marble  paths  shone  white  between  darkly 
grassed  borders.  Here  and  there  a  black  faqade  was 
cut  into  by  rows  of  long,  lighted  windows,  uncurtained 
and  unshuttered.  The  street  suggested  seclusion, 
109 


no  THE  PIONEER 

wealth  and  dignity.  The  fortunes,  which  were  later 
to  erect  huge  piles  on  San  Francisco's  wind-swept  hill- 
crests,  had  not  yet  arisen  to  blight  the  picturesque- 
ness  of  the  gray,  sea-girdled  city. 

His  own  house  was  one  of  the  largest  in  the  street. 
Now,  in  the  darkness,  it  loomed  an  irregular  black 
mass,  cut  into  with  squares  and  slits  of  light.  Just  a 
month  before  the  lease  of  his  tenants  had  expired,  and 
he  was  able  to  see  one,  at  least,  of  his  dreams  real- 
ized— Alice's  daughters  quartered  under  his  roof. 

The  revolution  of  Fortune's  wheel  had  been,  where 
the  Aliens  were  concerned,  sudden  and  dizzying.  The 
ledge,  that  man  for  years  had  fruitlessly  sought,  in 
one  night  had  been  laid  bare.  Even  for  the  time  and 
the  country  it  was  a  startling  reversal  of  conditions. 
In  the  spring  Beauregard  Allen  had  been  a  beggar. 
In  the  summer  he  saw  himself  a  man  of  wealth.  Ex- 
perts pronounced  the  discovery  one  of  moment.  The 
mine,  called  the  Barranca,  was  regarded  as  richer 
in  promise  than  the  Buckeye  Belle.  Distant  portions 
of  the  tract,  which  had  come  into  his  possession  in 
so  unlocked  for  a  manner,  were  sold  for  large  sums. 
The  whole  region  was  shaken  into  astonished  ani- 
mation and  Foleys  was  more  effectually  wakened  from 
the  dead  than  it  would  have  been  by  the  Colonel's 
original  scheme. 

Allen's  sloth  and  despondency  fell  from  him  like 
a  garment.  With  the  ready  money  from  the  land 
sales  he  at  once  began  the  development  of  the  pros- 
pect hole.  In  July  a  square  tunnel  mouth  and  a 
board  shed  intruded  on  the  sylvan  landscape  near 
the  landslide.  In  September  a  fair-sized  hoisting 


DOWN  IN  THE  CITY  HI 

works  housed  the  throb  of  engines  and  the  roll  of 
cars.  The  noise  of  Beauregard  Allen's  strike  went 
abroad  through  foot-hill  California  and  its  echo  rolled 
to  San  Francisco,  where  men  who  had  known  him 
in  the  early  days  suddenly  remembered  him  as  "Beau" 
Allen,  the  handsome  Southerner,  who  had  come  to 
grief  and  dropped  out  of  sight  in  the  fifties. 

In  September  he  came  down  to  San  Francisco  and 
saw  the  Colonel.  The  meeting  at  first  was  con- 
strained, but  as  Allen  spoke  of  his  daughters  and 
the  plans  for  their  happiness  and  welfare  that  he  had 
in  view  the  constraint  wore  away  and  the  two  men 
talked  as  beings  united  by  a  mutual  interest.  The 
Colonel  had  recognized  the  fact  that  the  breach  must 
be  healed.  He  had  had  to  struggle  against  his  old 
repugnance,  but  there  was  nothing  else  for  it.  No 
wrong,  however  deep,  should  stand  between  him  and 
Alice's  daughters,  and  he  could  not  know  the  daugh- 
ters without  accepting  the  father.  And  how  he  did 
want  to  know  them!  They  had  already  brought 
brightness  and  purpose  into  his  life.  In  an  effort  to 
treat  the  matter  lightly  he  told  himself  that  the  har- 
boring of  old  resentments,  when  they  blocked  the  way 
to  the  forming  of  new  ties,  was  too  much  like  cut- 
ting off  your  nose  to  spite  your  face.  Deep  in  his 
heart  lay  the  feeling  that,  apart  from  his  affection 
for  them,  they  might  need  him.  He  knew  Allen  of 
old,  and  Alice  was  dead. 

It  was  their  father's  intention  to  have  them  make 
San  Francisco  their  home.  In  the  larger  city  they 
would  have  the  advantages  of  society  and  chances  to 
marry  well.  One  of  the  objects  of  his  visit  was  to 


112  THE  PIONEER 

look  about  for  a  house  whence  they  could  be  launched 
into  the  little  world  in  which  he  once  had  played  his 
part.  It  was  thus  that  the  Colonel,  the  lease  of  his 
old  tenant  having  just  expired,  was  able  to  offer  them 
his  own  house  for  as  long  a  period  of  years  as  they 
might  wish. 

But  Allen,  swollen  with  the  pride  of  his  new  for- 
tunes, would  rent  no  house.  He  would  buy  one,  a 
fitting  home  for  two  such  girls  as  his.  When  it  came 
to  that,  the  Colonel  was  as  willing  to  sell  as  to  rent. 
The  price  of  thirty  thousand  dollars  was  put  upon  the 
Folsom  Street  mansion,  and  Allen,  being  much  im- 
pressed by  its  size  and  old-fashioned  splendor,  pur- 
chased it,  paying  down  the  sum  of  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars, while  the  Colonel  held  a  mortgage  maturing  in 
three  years  for  the  other  twenty  thousand.  Allen, 
despite  his  sudden  accession  to  wealth,  claimed  that 
his  expenses  just  now  were  of  the  heaviest.  In  Octo- 
ber he  contemplated  the  building  of  a  twenty-stamp 
mill  at  the  mine,  and  the  shaft  house  was  to  be  en- 
larged. The  winter  outfits  for  his  daughters  would 
be  costly.  It  was  his  intention  that  June  and  Rosa- 
mund should  be  as  richly  and  modishly  clad  as  any 
of  the  young  women  who  cast  a  glamour  over  the  so- 
ciety of  the  city. 

To-night  they  were  to  make  their  entrance  into 
that  society.  Mrs.  Davenport  was  an  old  friend  of 
the  Colonel's  and  he  had  asked  for  the  invitations, 
assuring  her  that  she  would  find  his  protegees  two  of 
the  prettiest  and  sweetest  girls  in  the  world.  Now  as 
he  sprang  from  the  carriage  and  pushed  open  the  tall 
gate  of  scrolled  iron- work  he  smiled  to  himself,  cheer- 


DOWN  IN  THE  CITY  113 

fully  confident  that  he  had  not  overstated  the  charms 
of  the  Misses  Allen. 

His  ring  brought  one  of  the  new  Chinese  servants 
to  the  door,  a  quiet  man,  so  ft- footed  as  a  cat,  and 
clothed  in  freshly-laundered  white.  Standing  in  the 
hall  under  the  light  he  watched  this  spectral  figure 
flit  noiselessly  up  the  stairway.  The  hall,  papered 
in  a  deep  reddish  purple  on  which  here  and  there  the 
gleam  of  gold  arabesques  was  faintly  visible,  was 
wide  and  dim.  It  would  require  a  galaxy  of  lamps 
thoroughly  to  dispel  the  gloom  that  lurked  in  its 
dusky  corners.  A  stately  staircase,  thickly  carpeted 
and  with  a  darkly-polished  hand-rail,  ran  up  in  front 
of  him.  There  was  a  light  again  at  the  top  of  this 
throwing  faint  glimmerings  on  receding  stretches  of 
wall,  also  somberly  papered. 

Through  the  wide  arch  on  his  right  he  could  look 
into  a  half-lighted  parlor,  where  a  globe  or  two  in  the 
chandelier  shone  a  translucent  yellow.  To  his  left 
the  doors  into  the  reception-room  were  open,  and 
here  by  a  table,  a  reading  lamp  at  his  elbow,  sat 
Beauregard  Allen  smoking  a  cigar.  He  was  in  even- 
ing dress,  but  a  button  or  two  of  unloosened  waist- 
coat, and  the  air  of  sprawling  ease  that  marked  his 
attitude,  did  not  suggest  the  trim  alertness  of  one 
garbed  and  tuned  for  festival. 

"Good  evening,  Parrish,"  he  said.  "The  girls  will 
be  down  in  a  minute.  I'm  going  to  beg  off.  Can't 
drag  me  away  from  a  good  cigar  and  comfortable 
chair  on  such  a  damned  cold  night." 

His  face  was  flushed;  he  had  evidently  been  drink- 
ing more  than  was  consistent  with  a  strictly  tern- 


ii4  THE  PIONEER 

perate  standard,  a  condition  which  often  marked 
him  after  dinner.  But  the  old  tendency  toward  an 
open  and  unabashed  inebriety  had  been  conquered. 
Well-dressed,  his  beard  trimmed,  the  sense  of  de- 
gradation and  failure  lifted  from  him,  he  looked  a 
stalwart,  personable  man,  in  whom  the  joy  of  life  was 
still  buoyantly  and  coarsely  alive. 

The  Colonel,  leaning  against  the  door  frame,  was 
about  to  launch  into  the  desultory  conversation  that 
fills  gaps,  when  the  rustle  of  skirts  on  the  stairs 
caught  his  ear.  June  and  Rosamund  were  descend- 
ing, their  cloaks  on  their  arms  that  they  might  show 
themselves  in  their  new  finery.  Their  mourning  for 
their  mother  took  the  form  of  transparent  black 
gauze,  through  which  the  delicate  whiteness  of  their 
youthful  arms  and  shoulders  gleamed.  They  laughed 
as  they  met  the  Colonel's  eye,  both  slightly  abashed 
by  the  unwonted  splendor  of  their  attire. 

Their  sudden  rise  from  poverty,  their  translation 
to  the  city,  and  their  short  stay  in  its  sophisticated 
atmosphere,  had  already  worked  a  marked  change 
in  them.  Their  air  of  naively  blushing  rusticity  was 
gone.  They  looked  finer,  more  mondaine,  than  they 
had  only  six  weeks  before.  Rosamund,  who  was  of 
an  ample,  gracious  build,  had  already,  by  the  aid  of 
the  admirable  dressmaker  who  had  fashioned  her 
gown,  achieved  a  figure  of  small-waisted,  full-busted 
elegance,  which,  combined  with  her  naturally  fine  car- 
riage, gave  her  an  appearance  of  metropolitan  poise 
and  distinction.  She  had  that  bounteous  and  bloom- 
ing type  of  looks  which  is  peculiai  to  the  women  of 
California,  and  which  (as  is  the  case  with  the  character 


DOWN  IN  THE  CITY  115 

that  accompanies  it)  is  curiously  lacking  in  feminine 
subtility  and  romantic  suggestion.  By  far  the  hand- 
somer of  the  two  sisters  she  was  not  destined  to  cast 
the  spell  over  the  hearts  of  men  which  was  the  pre- 
rogative of  June. 

She  too  had  improved,  but  neither  skilful  dress- 
makers nor  luxurious  surroundings  would  ever  make 
her  a  radiantly  good-looking  or  particularly  notice- 
able person.  Her  hair,  which  had  been  so  unsightly 
six  months  before,  was  now  her  one  beauty.  It  hung 
round  her  head  in  a  drooping  mass  of  brown  curls, 
the  longest  just  brushing  the  nape  of  her  neck. 
Through  them  was  wound  a  ribbon  of  black  velvet 
in  the  manner  of  adornment  sometimes  seen  in 
eighteenth  century  miniatures. 

The  girls  grumbled  a  little  at  their  father's  de- 
fection, but  the  truth  was  that  they  were  so  ex- 
cited by  the  evening's  prospect  that  their  regrets  had 
a  perfunctory  tone.  In  the  carriage  they  plied  the 
Colonel  with  questions  as  to  the  nature  of  the  en- 
tertainment and  the  people  they  were  likely  to  meet. 
It  amused  and  somewhat  puzzled  him  to  see  that  the 
anticipation  of  what  he  had  supposed  would  be  a 
beguiling  and  cheerful  amusement  was  throwing 
them  into  nervous  tremors.  As  the  large  outline  of 
the  Davenport  house  rose  before  them,  all  attempt 
at  conversation  died,  and  they  sat,  stiff  and  speech- 
less, on  the  seat  opposite  him. 

The  Davenport  house,  as  all  old  Calif ornians  know, 
was  at  that  time  and  had  been  for  ten  years,  the 
focus  of  the  city's  social  life.  Mrs.  Davenport  was 
a  Southerner  and  had  been  a  beauty,  facts  which 


ii6  THE  PIONEER 

had  weighed  with  the  San  Franciscans  since  the  days 
when  "the  water  came  up  to  Montgomery  Street." 
The  Southern  tradition  still  retained  much  of  its  orig- 
inal power.  The  war  had  not  broken  it,  and  the 
overwhelming  eruption  of  money,  which  the  Corn- 
stock  was  to  disgorge,  had  not  yet  submerged  the 
once  dominant  "set."  At  its  head  Mrs.  Davenport 
ruled  with  tact  and  determination.  She  appeared  to 
the  Aliens  as  a  graciously  cordial  lady  of  more  than 
middle  age,  whose  sweeping  robe  of  gray  satin 
matched  the  hair  she  wore  parted  on  her  forehead 
and  drawn  primly  down  over  the  tips  of  her  ears. 

To  the  sisters  it  was  the  entrance  into  a  new  world, 
the  world  their  parents  had  strayed  from  and  often 
described  to  them.  Seated  in  arm-chairs  of  yellow 
brocade  they  surveyed  the  length  of  the  parlor,  a 
spacious,  high-ceilinged  apartment,  of  a  prevailing 
paleness  of  tint  and  overhung  by  crystal  chandeliers. 
The  black  shoulders  of  men  were  thrown  out  against 
the  white  walls  delicately  touched  with  a  design  in 
gilding.  Long  mirrors  reproduced  the  figures  of 
women  rising  from  -  the  curving  sweep  of  bright- 
colored,  beruffled  trains.  A  Chinaman,  carrying  a 
wide  tray  of  plates  and  glasses,  moved  from  group 
to  group. 

Soon  several  of  the  black  coats  had  gathered  round 
the  chairs  of  June  and  Rosamund.  The  Colonel 
had  to  give  up  his  seat,  and  June  could  see  him  talking 
to  men  in  the  doorways  or  dropping  into  vacant  places 
beside  older  women.  He  kept  his  eye  on  them,  how- 
ever. It  delighted  him  to  see  that  their  charm  was 
so  quickly  recognized.  Round  about  him  their  name 


DOWN  IN  THE  CITY  117 

buzzed  from  a  knot  in  a  corner,  or  a  group  on  a  sofa. 
Many  of  those  present  had  known  Beauregard  Allen 
in  his  short  heyday.  Almost  everybody  in  the  room 
had  heard  of  his  strike  near  Foleys  and  sudden  trans- 
lation from  poverty  to  riches. 

When  at  length  the  Colonel  saw  the  chair  beside 
June  vacant  he  crossed  the  room  and  dropped  into 
it.  He  was  anxious  to  hear  from  her  how  she  was 
enjoying  herself. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "the  old  man's  been  frozen  out 
for  nearly  an  hour.  Didn't  it  make  you  feel  con- 
science-stricken to  see  me  hanging  round  the  doorway 
looking  hungrily  at  this  chair?" 

"I  was  dying  for  that  man  to  go,"  she  answered. 
"I  did  everything  but  ask  him." 

"Oh,  you  sinner!"  he  said,  looking  into  her  danc- 
ing eyes.  "Where  will  you  go  to  when  you  die?" 

"Where  do  you  think  you  will?"  she  asked,  grave, 
but  with  her  dimple  faintly  suggested.  "I'd  like  to 
know,  because  then  I  can  arrange  to  have  just  about 
the  same  sort  of  record,  and  we  could  go  together." 

He  could  not  restrain  his  laughter,  and  she  added 
in  her  most  caressing  tone, 

"It  would  be  so  dreary  for  you  to  go  to  one  place 
and  me  to  be  in  another." 

Before  he  could  answer  she  had  raised  her  eyes, 
glanced  at  the  door,  and  then  suddenly  flushed,  her 
face  disclosing  a  sort  of  sudden  quick  snap  into  fo- 
cused attention. 

"Mr.  Barclay,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I  didn't 
expect  to  see  him  to-night." 

The  Colonel  turned  his  head  and  saw  Jerry  Barclay 


n8  THE  PIONEER 

entering  the  room  in  the  company  of  a  lady  and 
gentleman.  Many  other  people  looked  at  them  as 
they  moved  to  where  Mrs.  Davenport  stood,  for  they 
were  unquestionably  a  noticeable  trio. 

The  woman  was  in  the  middle,  and  between  the 
proud  and  distinguished  figure  of  Barclay  and  the 
small,  insignificant  one  of  her  other  escort,  she  pre- 
sented a  striking  appearance.  She  was  of  a  large, 
full  build,  verging  on  embonpoint,  but  still  showing 
a  restrained  luxuriance  of  outline.  A  dress  of  white 
lace  clothed  her  tightly  and  swept  in  creamy  billows 
over  the  carpet  behind  her.  It  was  cut  in  a  square 
at  her  neck,  and  the  sleeves  ended  at  her  elbows, 
revealing  a  throat  and  forearms  of  milky  whiteness. 
This  ivory  purity  of  skin  was  noticeable  in  her  face, 
which  was  firmly  modeled,  rather  heavy  in  feature, 
and  crowned  with  a  coronet  of  lusterless  black  hair. 
She  was  hardly  handsome,  but  there  was  something 
sensational,  arresting,  slightly  repelling,  in  the  sleepy 
and  yet  vivid  vitality  that  seemed  to  emanate  from 
her. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  June  in  a  low  voice.  "What  a 
curious  looking  woman!" 

The  Colonel,  who  had  been  surveying  the  new- 
comers, looked  at  his  companion  with  eyes  in  which 
there  was  a  slight  veiled  coldness.  The  same  quality 
was  noticeable  in  his  voice: 

"Her  name's  Newbury,  Mrs.  William  Newbury. 
Her  husband's  a  banker  here." 

"Is  that  her  husband  with  her,  that  little  man?" 

"Yes," 


DOWN  IN  THE  CITY  119 

"But  he's  so  old !  He  looks  like  her  father.  What 
did  she  marry  him  for?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  not  her  father-confessor.  He's 
got  a  good  deal  of  money,  I  believe." 

The  Colonel  did  not  seem  interested  in  the  subject. 
He  picked  up  June's  fan  and  said, 

"How  did  you  like  the  young  fellow  who  had  this 
chair  just  now,  Stanley  Davenport?  He's  the  last 
unmarried  child  my  old  friend  has  left." 

The  girl's  eyes,  however,  had  followed  the  new- 
comers with  avid,  staring  curiosity,  and  she  said, 

"Very  much.  Are  Mrs.  Newbury  and  her  husband 
great  friends  of  Mr.  Barclay's?" 

"I  believe  they  are.  I  don't  know  much  about  her. 
I  know  her  husband  in  business.  He's  a  little  dried 
up,  but  he's  a  first-rate  fellow  in  the  main." 

"Is  she  an  American?  She  looks  so  queer  and 
foreign." 

"Spanish,  Spanish-Californian.  She  and  her  sister 
were  two  celebrated  beauties  here  about  twelve  years 
ago.  Their  name  was  Romero — Carmen  and  Guada- 
lupe  Romero — and  they  were  very  poor.  Their  grand- 
father had  been  a  sort  of  a  Shepherd  King,  owned  a 
Spanish  grant  about  as  big  as  a  European  princi- 
pality, and  when  the  Gringo  came  traded  off  big 
chunks  of  it  for  lengths  of  calico  and  old  firearms 
and  books  he  couldn't  read.  The  girls  were  friends 
of  Mrs.  Davenport's  only  daughter  Annie,  and  she 
gave  them  a  start.  Carmen — she  was  the  elder  of 
the  two — married  an  Englishman,  a  man  of  position 
and  means  that  she  met  in  this  house.  She  lives  over 


120  THE  PIONEER 

in  England.  This  one — Lupe — married  Newbury 
about  ten  years  ago." 

"Do  you  think  she's  pretty?"  asked  June,  anxious 
to  have  her  uncertainty  on  this  point  settled  by  what 
she  regarded  as  expert  opinion. 

"No.  I  don't  admire  her  at  all.  She  was  hand- 
some when  she  married.  Those  Spanish  women  all 
get  too  fat.  You  saw  something  of  Barclay  at  Foleys 
after  I  left,  didn't  you?" 

She  dropped  her  eyes  to  the  hands  folded  in  her 
lap  and  said  with  a  nonchalant  air,  . 

"Yes,  he  was  at  Foleys  for  over  a  week.  He  came 
back  from  Thompson's  Flat  just  after  you  left,  and 
he  used  to  come  and  see  us  every  afternoon.  We  had 
lots  of  fun.  He  helped  us  with  the  garden,  and  he 
didn't  know  how  to  do  anything,  and  we  had  to  teach 
him." 

"You  saw  a  lot  of  Rion  Gracey  too,  I  suppose,"  said 
her  companion,  with  a  sidelong  eye  on  her. 

It  pleased  him  to  note  that  at  this  remark  she 
looked  suddenly  conscious. 

The  Colonel  had  for  some  time  cherished  a  secret 
hope.  It  was  one  of  the  subjects  of  mutual  agree- 
ment which  had  made  it  easier  for  him  and  Allen  to 
bury  the  hatchet.  The  latter  had  told  him  of  Rion 
Gracey 's  continued  visits  to  the  cottage  throughout 
the  summer,  and  both  men  had  agreed  that  no  woman 
could  find  a  better  husband  than  the  younger  of  the 
Gracey  boys. 

June's  conscious  air  was  encouraging,  but  her 
words  were  aggravatingly  non-committal. 


DOWN  IN  THE  CITY  121 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "we  saw  Mr.  Gracey  often. 
He  was  always  coming  into  Foleys  to  buy  supplies 
for  the  Buckeye  Belle." 

At  that  moment  Barclay,  who  had  turned  away 
from  his  companions,  saw  her,  and  with  a  start  of 
recognition  followed  by  a  smile  of  undisguised  plea- 
sure, hurried  toward  her.  The  Colonel  rose  with  some 
reluctance.  He  was  surprised  and  not  entirely  pleased 
at  the  open  delight  of  the  young  man's  countenance, 
the  confident  friendliness  of  his  greeting.  He  gave 
up  his  chair,  however,  and  as  he  crossed  the  room  to 
one  of  his  elderly  cronies,  he  saw  that  Mrs.  Newbury 
was  watching  Jerry  Barclay  and  June  with  a  slight, 
lazy  smile  and  attentive  eyes. 

"I  came  here  to-night  solely  to  see  you,"  said  the 
young  man,  as  soon  as  the  Colonel  was  out  of  ear- 
shot. 

"But  how  did  you  know  I  was  here?"  asked  the 
innocent  June.  "I  never  told  you." 

"No,  you  naughty  girl,  you  never  did.  But  I  heard 
it." 

"Little  birds?"  she  queried,  tilting  up  her  chin  and 
looking  at  him  out  of  the  ends  of  her  eyes. 

"Little  birds,"  he  acquiesced.  "And  why  didn't  you 
let  me  know?  Don't  I  remember  your  making 
me  a  solemn  promise  at  Foleys  to  tell  me  the  first 
thing  if  you  ever  came  to  San  Francisco?  You  were 
doubtful  then  if  you  ever  would." 

"Yes,  I  think  you  do,"  she  agreed.  "That  is,  if 
you've  got  a  good  memory." 

"You  evidently  haven't." 


122  THE  PIONEER 

"I  remembered  it  perfectly  and  was  waiting  until 
we  got  settled  in  our  new  house  before  I  wrote  you. 
I  was  going  to  give  you  a  surprise." 

"Well,  you've  surprised  me  enough  already."  He 
leaned  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  looking  at  her  with 
eyes  that  were  at  once  soft  and  bold  said:  "You've 
changed  so;  you've  changed  immensely  since  I  saw 
you  last." 

She  dropped  her  eyes  and  said  demurely, 

"I  hope  it's  for  the  better,"  then  looked  up  at  him 
and  their  laughter  broke  out  in  happy  duet. 

The  Colonel  heard  it  across  the  room,  and  glanc- 
ing at  them  felt  annoyed  that  June  should  look  so 
suddenly  flushed  and  radiant.  Evidently  she  and  Jerry 
Barclay,  in  the  ten  days  he  had  spent  at  Foleys,  had 
become  very  good  friends. 

An  hour  later  the  Misses  Allen  were  standing  at 
the  top  of  the  steps  that  led  from  the  porch  to  the 
street.  Guests  were  departing  in  all  directions,  and 
the  lanterns  of  carriages  were  sending  tubes  of 
opaque,  yellow  light  through  the  fog.  The  Colonel 
had  gone  in  quest  of  theirs,  cautioning  his  charges  to 
waft  in  the  shelter  of  the  porch  for  him.  Here  they 
stood,  close-wrapped  against  the  damp,  and  peering 
into  the  churning  white  currents.  Just  below  them 
two  men,  the  collars  of  their  coats  up,  paused  to 
light  their  cigars.  One  accomplished  the  feat  with- 
out difficulty;  the  other  stood  with  his  hand  curved 
round  the  match,  which  many  times  flamed  and  went 
out. 

Suddenly  June  heard  his  companion  say  between 
puffs, 


DOWN  IN  THE  CITY  123 

"Queer,  Mrs.  Newbury  being  here!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  other,  drawing  a 
new  match  from  his  pocket,  "Mrs.  Davenport  knew 
the  Romero  girls  long  before  they  were  married. 
They  were  friends  of  Annie  Davenport's.  Nobody 'd 
ever  breathed  a  word  against  either  of  them  then. 
She  wouldn't  throw  Lupe  down  on  a  rumored  scan- 
dal. I  don't  see  how  she  could." 

"Lots  of  people  have.  And  you  call  it  a  'ru- 
mored scandal'  all  you  want;  everybody  believes  it. 
She  owns  him  body  and  soul." 

The  other  man  had  at  last  induced  the  tip  of  his 
cigar  to  catch.  He  threw  back  his  head  and  drew 
a  few  quick  inspirations. 

"That's  the  story.  But  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Daven- 
port is  not  going  to  damn  her  daughter's  friend  on 
hearsay.  Women  have  got  a  creed  of  their  own; 
they  believe  what  they  want  to  and  they  disbelieve 
what  they  want  to.  She  wants  to  believe  that  the 
affair's  purely  platonic,  and  she  does  it." 

"But  Barclay!  To  hang  round  her  that  way  in 
public — what  a  fool!" 

"Oh,  Barclay !" — a  shrug  went  with  the  words — 
"he  does  what  he's  told!" 

The  man  turned  as  he  spoke  and  saw  the  two  girls 
above  him  on  the  step.  He  threw  a  low-toned  phrase 
at  his  companion,  and  without  more  words  they  started 
out  and  were  absorbed  in  the  darkness.  Almost  si- 
multaneously a  carriage  rattled  up  and  the  Colonel's 
voice  bade  June  and  Rosamund  descend. 

A  half-hour  later,  as  they  were  mounting  the  stairs 
to  their  rooms,  June  said  suddenly, 


124  THE  PIONEER 

"Did  you  hear  what  those  men  were  saying  on 
the  steps  as  we  stood  there  waiting?" 

They  had  both  heard  the  entire  conversation,  and 
though  they  did  not  understand  the  true  purport  of 
the  ambiguous  phrases,  they  realized  that  they  con- 
tained a  veiled  censure  of  Mrs.  Newbury  and  Jerry 
Barclay.  Their  secluded  bringing  up  in  an  impov- 
erished home  where  the  coarseness  of  the  world  never 
entered  had  kept  them  ignorant  of  the  winked-at 
sins  of  society.  Yet  the  crude  frankness  of  mining 
camps  had  paraded  before  their  eyes  many  things 
that  girls  brought  up  in  the  respectable  areas  of  large 
cities  never  see. 

"Yes,  I  heard  them,"  said  Rosamund. 

"What  did  they  mean?  I  didn't  understand  them. 
They  seemed  to  think  there  was  something  wrong 
about  Mrs.  Newbury." 

"I  don't  know  what  they  meant.  But  I  didn't  like 
her  looks  at  all.  I  wouldn't  want  her  for  a  friend." 

"They  said  something  of  Mr.  Barclay  too,  didn't 
they?" 

"Yes;  they  said  he  was  a  fool  and  did  as  he  was 
told." 

"Well,"  said  June,  bristling,  "those  are  just  the  two 
particular  things  about  him  I  should  think  were  not 
true.  But  there  was  some  one  that  they  said  she — 
I  suppose  that  meant  Mrs.  Newbury — owned  body 
and  soul.  Whom  do  you  suppose  they  meant?" 

"Her  husband,"  said  Rosamund  promptly.  "Whom 
else  could  they  mean?" 

June  had  felt  depressed  on  the  way  home.  At  these 
words  her  depression  suddenly  vanished  and  she  be- 


DOWN  IN  THE  CITY  125 

came  wreathed  in  smiles.  Thrusting  her  hand 
through  Rosamund's  arm  she  gave  it  an  affectionate 
squeeze,  exclaiming  with  a  sudden  sputter  of  laughter, 

"Well,  if  his  soul  isn't  a  better  specimen  than  his 
body  I  don't  think  it's  much  to  own." 

Rosamund  was  shocked ;  she  refused  even  to  smile, 
as  June,  drooping  against  her  shoulder,  filled  the 
silence  of  the  sleeping  house  with  the  sound  of  her 
laughter. 


CHAPTER   II 

FEMININE  LOGIC 

Social  life  in  San  Francisco  at  this  period  had  a 
distinction,  a  half-foreign,  bizarre  picturesqueness, 
which  it  soon  after  lost  and  has  never  regained. 
Separated  from  the  rest  of  the  country  by  a  sweep 
of  unconquered  desert,  ringed  on  its  farther  side  by 
a  girdle  of  sea,  the  pioneer  city  developed,  undis- 
turbed by  outside  influences,  along  its  own  lines. 

The  adventures  of  forty-nine  had  infused  into  it 
some  of  the  breadth  and  breeziness  of  their  wild  spirit. 
The  bonanza  period  of  the  Comstock  lode  had  not 
yet  arisen  to  place  huge  fortunes  in  the  hands  of 
the  coarsely  ambitious  and  frankly  illiterate,  and  to  in- 
fect the  populace  with  a  lust  of  money  that  has  never 
been  conquered.  There  were  few  millionaires,  and  the 
passionate  desire  to  become  one  had  not  yet  been 
planted  in  the  bosom  of  every  simple  male,  who,  under 
ordinary  conditions,  would  have  been  content  to  wield 
a  pick  or  sweep  down  the  office  stairs.  The  volcano 
of  silver  that  was  to  belch  forth  precious  streams  over 
the  far  West,  and  from  thence  over  the  world,  was 
beginning  to  stir  and  mutter,  but  its  muttering  was 
still  too  low  to  be  caught  by  any  but  the  sharpest  ears. 

The  society  which  welcomed  June  and  Rosamund 
126 


FEMININE  LOGIC  127 

was  probably  the  best  the  city  ever  had  to  offer.  After 
the  manner  of  all  flourishing  communities  it  aspired 
to  renew  itself  by  the  infusion  of  new  blood,  and  the 
young  girls  were  graciously  greeted.  Carriages  rolled 
up  to  the  high  iron  gates,  and  ladies  whose  names 
were  of  weight  trailed  their  silk  skirts  over  the 
flagged  walk.  Coming  in  late  in  the  wintry  dusk  it 
was  very  exciting  always  to  find  cards  on  the  hall 
table. 

There  were  often  men's  cards  among  them.  A 
good  many  moths  had  begun  to  flutter  round  the 
flames  of  youth  and  beauty  and  wealth  that  burnt  in 
the  Colonel's  house  on  Folsom  Street.  In  his  con- 
stant visits  he  had  formed  a  habit  of  looking  over 
these  cards  as  he  stood  in  the  hall  taking  off  his  over- 
coat. The  frequency  with  which  the  card  of  Mr. 
Jerome  Barclay  lay  freshly  and  conspicuously  on  top 
of  the  pile  struck  him  unpleasantly  and  caused  him 
to  remark  upon  the  fact  to  June. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Barclay  comes  quite  often,"  she  said, 
"but  so  does  Mr.  Davenport  and  Mr.  Brooks  and 
Mr.  Pierce,  and  several  others." 

She  had  changed  color  and  looked  embarrassed  at 
the  mention  of  his  name,  and  the  Colonel  had  spoken 
to  Rosamund  about  it.  The  Colonel  had  begun  to 
rely  upon  Rosamund,  as  everybody  did,  and,  like 
everybody,  he  had  come  to  regard  her  as  much  the 
elder  of  the  two  sisters,  the  one  to  be  consulted  and 
to  seek  advice  of.  Rosamund  admitted  that  Mr.  Bar- 
clay did  come  rather  often,  but  not  indeed,  as  June 
had  said,  oftener  than  several  others. 

"Does  he  come  to  see  June,  or  you,  or  both  of 


128  THE  PIONEER 

you?"  the  Colonel  had  asked  bluntly,  looking  at  the 
last  slip  of  pasteboard  left  by  the  young  man. 

"Oh,  June,  of  course,"  said  Rosamund,  with  a  little 
quickness  of  impatience.  "They  nearly  all  come  to 
see  June." 

"I  don't  see  what  the  devil  business  he  has  doing 
that,"  said  the  Colonel,  throwing  down  the  card  with 
angry  contempt.  "What's  he  come  round  here  for, 
anyway  ?" 

"Why  shouldn't  he?"  asked  Rosamund,  surprised 
at  his  sudden  annoyance. 

"Well,  he  shouldn't,"  said  the  Colonel  shortly. 
"That's  one  sure  thing.  He  shouldn't." 

And  so  that  conversation  ended,  but  the  memory 
of  it  lingered  uneasily  in  Rosamund's  mind,  and  she 
found  herself  counting  Jerry  Barclay's  calls  and 
watching  June  while  he  was  there  and  after  he  had 
gone. 

The  visits  of  the  young  man  were  not  indeed  suffi- 
ciently frequent  to  warrant  uneasiness  on  sentimental 
scores.  He  sometimes  dropped  in  on  Sunday  after- 
.noon,  and  now  and  then  on  week-day  evenings.  What 
neither  Rosamund  nor  the  Colonel  knew  was  that 
he  had  formed  a  habit  of  meeting  June  on  walks  she 
took  along  the  fine  new  promenade  of  Van  Ness 
Avenue,  and  on  several  occasions  had  spent  a 
friendly  hour  with  her,  sitting  on  one  of  the  benches 
in  the  little  plaza  on  Turk  Street. 

The  first  and  second  times  this  had  happened  June 
had  mentioned  the  fact  to  her  sister,  and  that  a  gen- 
tleman should  accidentally  meet  a  lady  in  an  after- 
noon stroll  had  seemed  a  matter  of  so  little  impor- 


FEMININE  LOGIC  129 

tance  that  Rosamund  had  quickly  forgotten  it.  The 
subsequent  meetings,  also  apparently  accidental,  June, 
for  some  reason  known  to  herself,  had  not  mentioned 
to  any  one.  Now  it  was  hard  for  her  to  persuade 
herself  that  she  met  Jerry  Barclay  by  anything  but 
prearranged  design;  and  June  did  not  like  to  think 
that  she  met  him,  or  any  other  man,  by  prearrange- 
ment.  So  she  let  him  elicit  from  her  by  skilful  ques- 
tioning, her  itinerary  for  her  afternoon  walks  when 
she  had  no  engagements,  and  took  some  trouble  to 
make  herself  believe  that  the  meetings  still  had  at 
least  an  air  of  the  accidental. 

But  why  did  she  not  tell  her  sister  of  these  walks  ? 
Why,  in  fact,  had  she  once  or  twice  lately  almost 
misled  Rosamund  in  her  efforts  to  evade  her  queries 
as  to  how  she  had  passed  the  afternoon? 

If  June  happened  to  be  looking  in  the  mirror  when 
she  asked  herself  these  questions  she  noticed  that 
she  reddened  and  looked  guilty.  There  was  nothing 
wrong  in  meeting  Mr.  Barclay  and  walking  with  him 
or  sitting  on  one  of  the  benches  in  the  quiet  little 
plaza.  Their  conversation  had  never  contained  a 
word  with  which  the  strictest  duenna  could  have 
found  fault.  Why,  then,  did  June  not  tell?  She 
hardly  knew  herself.  Some  delicate  fiber  of  femi- 
nine instinct  told  her  that  what  was  becoming  a 
secretly  tremulous  pleasure  would  be  questioned,  in- 
terfered with,  probably  stopped.  She  knew  she  was 
not  one  who  could  fight  and  defy.  They  would  over- 
whelm her,  and  she  would  submit,  baffled  and  miser- 
able. 

If  Jerry  Barclay  liked  to  talk  to  her  that  way  in 


130  THE  PIONEER 

the  open  air,  or  on  the  park  bench  better  than  in  the 
gloomy  grandeur  of  the  parlor  in  Folsom  Street,  why 
should  he  not?  And  yet  she  felt  that  if  she  had 
said  this  to  Rosamund  with  all  the  defiant  confidence 
with  which  she  said  it  to  herself,  Rosamund  would 
in  some  unexpected  way  sweep  aside  her  argument, 
show  it  worthless,  and  make  her  feel  that  if  Jerry 
did  not  want  to  see  her  in  her  own  house  he  ought 
not  to  see  her  at  all.  So  June  used  the  weapons  of 
the  weak,  one  of  the  most  valuable  of  which  is  the 
maintaining  of  silence  on  matters  of  dispute. 

It  was  in  February  that  their  father  suggested  that 
they  should  return  the  numerous  hospitalities  offered 
them  by  giving  a  dance.  It  would  not  be  a  ball.  They 
were  still  too  inexperienced  in  the  art  of  entertain- 
ment, and  their  mourning  was  yet  too  deep  to  per- 
mit of  their  venturing  on  so  ambitious  a  beginning. 
"Just  a  house-warming,"  Allen  said  when  he  saw  that 
they  were  rather  alarmed  by  the  magnitude  of  the 
undertaking.  There  was  much  talking  and  consult- 
ing of  the  Colonel.  Every  night  after  dinner  the  girls 
sat  long  over  the  coffee  and  fruit,  discussing  such 
vital  points  as  to  whether  there  should  be  two  salads 
at  the  supper  and  would  they  have  four  musicians  or 
five.  Allen  called  them  "little  misers,"  and  told  them 
they  "never  would  be  tracked  through  life  by  the 
quarters  they  dropped."  It  was  interesting  to  the 
Colonel  to  notice  that  Rosamund's  habits  of  economy 
clung  to  her,  while  June  had  assimilated  the  tastes 
and  extravagances  of  the  women  about  her  with  a 
sudden,  transforming  completeness. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  after-dinner  consultations 


FEMININE  LOGIC  131 

that  he  was  presented  with  the  list  of  guests  written 
out  neatly  in  Rosamund's  clear  hand.  Was  it  all  right, 
or  did  Uncle  Jim  think  they  had  left  out  anybody? 

As  he  ran  his  eye  over  it  Allen  said  suddenly: 

"They've  got  Mrs.  Newbury  down  there.  What  do 
you  think  about  her?" 

The  Colonel,  who  was  reading  through  his  glasses, 
looked  up  with  a  sharp  glance  of  surprise  and  again 
down  at  the  list,  where  his  eyes  stopped  at  the  ques- 
tioned name. 

"Oh,  strike  her  off,"  he  said.  "What  do  you  want 
her  for?" 

"She's  been  here  to  see  us,"  Rosamund  demurred, 
"and  she  asked  us  once  to  her  house  to  hear  some- 
body sing." 

"\Vhy  shouldn't  she  come?"  said  June.  "What  is 
there  about  her  you  don't  like?" 

"I  didn't  say  there  was  anything,"  he  answered  in 
a  tone  of  irritated  impatience.  "But  she's  a  good  deal 
older  than  you,  and — and — well,  I  guess  it  wouldn't 
amuse  her.  She  doesn't  dance.  You  don't  want  to 
waste  any  invitations  on  people  who  may  not  come." 

Apparently  this  piece  of  masculine  logic  was  to 
him  conclusive,  for  he  took  his  pencil  and  made  a 
mark  through  the  name. 

The  evening  of  the  dance  arrived,  and  long  before 
midnight  its  success  was  assured.  It  was  undoubtedly 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  affairs  of  the  winter.  It 
seemed  the  last  touch  on  the  ascending  fortunes  of 
June  and  Rosamund.  They  had  never  looked  so  well. 
In  her  dress  of  shimmering  white,  which  showed  her 
polished  shoulders,  Rosamund  was  beautiful,  and 


I32  THE  PIONEER 

June,  similarly  garbed,  looked,  as  some  of  the  women 
guests  remarked,  "actually  pretty."  As  a  hostess  she 
danced  little.  Three  times,  however,  Rosamund  no- 
ticed her  floating  about  the  room  encircled  by  the  arm 
of  Jerry  Barclay.  Other  people  noticed  it  too.  But 
June,  carried  away  by  the  excitement  of  the  evening, 
was  indifferent  to  the  comment  she  might  create.  So 
was  Barclay.  He  had  drunk  much  champagne  and 
felt  defiant  of  the  world.  She  felt  defiant  too,  because 
she  was  so  confidently  happy. 

By  three  the  last  guests  had  gone.  Allen,  hardly 
waiting  for  the  door  to  slam  on  them,  stumbled  sleep- 
ily to  bed,  and  June  followed,  a  wearied  sprite,  bits  of 
torn  gauze  trailing  from  her  skirt,  the  wreath  of  jas- 
mine blossoms  she  wore  faded  and  broken,  the  starry 
flowers  caught  in  her  curls. 

"Rosie,  I'm  too  tired  to  stay  up  a  minute  longer," 
she  called  from  the  stairs,  catching  a  glimpse  of  the 
dismantled  parlor  with  Rosamund,  followed  by  a 
yawning  Chinaman,  turning  out  lights  and  locking 
windows. 

"Go  up,  dear,"  answered  Rosamund  in  her  most  ma- 
ternal tone.  "I'll  be  up  in  a  minute.  Sing's  so  sleepy 
I  know  he'll  go  to  bed  and  leave  everything  open  if 
I  don't  stay  till  he's  done." 

The  sisters  occupied  two  large  rooms,  broad-win- 
dowed and  spacious,  in  the  front  of  the  house.  The 
door  of  connection  was  never  shut.  They  talked  to- 
gether as  they  dressed,  walking  from  room  to  room. 
The  tie  between  them,  that  had  never  been  broken 
by  a  week's  separation,  was  unusually  close  even  for 


FEMININE  LOGIC  133 

sisters  so  near  of  an  age,  so  united  by  mutual  cares 
and  past  sorrows. 

June's  room  shone  bright  in  the  lights  from  the  two 
ground-glass  globes  which  protruded  on  gilded  sup- 
ports from  either  side  of  the  bureau  mirror.  It  was 
furnished  in  the  heavily  gorgeous  manner  of  the  pe- 
riod and  place.  Long  curtains  of  coarse  lace  fell  over 
the  windows,  which  above  were  garnished  with  pale 
blue  satin  lambrequins  elaborately  draped.  The 
deeply  tufted  and  upholstered  furniture  was  covered 
with  a  blue  and  white  cretonne  festooned  with  woolen 
tassels  and  fringes.  Over  the  foot  of  the  huge  bed 
lay  a  satin  eiderdown  quilt  of  the  same  shade  as  the 
lambrequins. 

June,  completely  exhausted,  was  soon  in  bed,  and 
lying  peacefully  curled  on  her  side  waited  for  her  sis- 
ter's footsteps.  As  she  heard  the  creak  of  Rosa- 
mund's opening  door  she  called  softly : 

"Come  in  here.  I  want  to  talk.  I've  millions  of 
things  to  say  to  you." 

Rosamund  swept  rustling  into  the  room  and  sat 
down  on  the  side  of  the  bed.  Her  dress  was  neither 
crushed  nor  torn  and  the  bloom  of  her  countenance 
was  unimpaired  by  fatigue. 

"Dear  Rosie,  you  look  so  lovely,"  said  June,  curl- 
ing her  little  body  under  the  clothes  comfortably 
round  her  sister.  "There  was  nobody  here  to-night 
half  as  good-looking  as  you  were." 

She  lightly  touched  Rosamund's  arm  with  the  tips 
of  her  fingers,  murmuring  to  herself, 

"Lovely,  marbly  arms  like  a  statue!" 


134  THE  PIONEER 

Her  sister,  indifferent  to  these  compliments,  which 
she  did  not  appear  to  hear,  sat  looking  at  the  toe  of 
her  slipper. 

"I  think  it  was  a  great  success,"  she  said.  "Every- 
body seemed  to  enjoy  it." 

"Of  course  they  did.  I  know  I  did.  I  never  had 
such  a  beautiful,  galumptious  time  in  my  life." 

Rosamund  gave  her  a  gravely  inspecting  side- 
glance. 

"You  tore  your  dress  round  the  bottom,  I  saw. 
There  was  quite  a  large  piece  trailing  on  the  floor." 

"Yes,  it  was  dreadful,"  said  June,  nestling  closer 
about  the  sitting  figure  and  smiling  in  dreamy  de- 
light. "Somebody  trod  on  it  while  I  was  dancing, 
and  then  they  danced  away  with  it  round  them,  and 
it  tore  off  me  in  yards,  as  if  I  was  a  top  and  it  was 
my  string." 

"Were  you  dancing  with  Jerry  Barclay?"  asked 
Rosamund. 

"I  don't  think  so."  She  turned  her  head  in  profile 
on  the  pillow  and  looked  at  her  sister  out  of  the  corner 
of  her  eye.  Meeting  Rosamund's  sober  glance  she 
broke  into  suppressed  laughter. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Rosie?"  she  said,  giv- 
ing her  a  little  kick  through  the  bed-clothes;  "you 
look  as  solemn  as  an  undertaker." 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  have  danced  so  often 
with  Jerry  Barclay.  It — it — doesn't  look  well.  It — " 
she  stopped. 

"'It' — well,  go  on.  Tell  me  all  about  it.  A  child 
could  play  with  me  to-night.  You  couldn't  make  me 
angry  if  you  tried." 


FEMININE  LOGIC  135 

"June,"  said  Rosamund,  turning  toward  her  with 
annoyed  seriousness,  "I  don't  think  you  ought  to  be 
friends  with  Jerry  Barclay." 

"What  do  you  say  that  for?" 

Despite  her  previous  remark  as  to  the  difficulty  of 
making  her  angry,  there  was  a  distinct,  cold  edge  on 
June's  voice  as  she  spoke. 

"I  found  out  to-night.  Ever  since  we  heard  those 
men  talk  that  evening  at  Mrs.  Davenport's  I  had  a 
feeling  that  something  wasn't  right.  And  then  Uncle 
Jim  being  so  positive  about  not  asking  Mrs.  Newbury 
here  this  evening." 

"What's  Mrs.  Newbury  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Everything.  It's  all  Mrs.  Newbury.  To-night  in 
the  dressing-room  some  girls  were  talking  about  her 
and  Mr.  Barclay ;  I  asked  them  what  they  meant,  and 
I  heard  it  all.  It's  a  horrid  story.  I  don't  like  to 
tell  it  to  you." 

"What  is  it?"  said  June.  She  had  turned  her  head 
on  the  pillow  and  stared  full  face  at  her  sister.  She 
was  tensely,  frowningly  grave. 

"Well,  they  say — every  one  says — they're  lovers." 

"Lovers !"  exclaimed  June.  "What  do  you  mean  by 
that?  She's  married." 

"That's  just  the  dreadful  part  of  it.  They're  that 
kind  of  lovers — the  wrong  kind.  They've  been  for 
years,  and  she  loves  him  desperately  and  won't  let 
him  have  anything  to  do  with  anybody  else.  And  Mr. 
Newbury  loves  her,  and  doesn't  know,  and  thinks 
Jerry  Barclay  is  his  friend." 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  room.  Rosamund  had 
found  it  difficult  to  tell  this  base  and  ignoble  piece 


136  THE  PIONEER 

of  scandal  to  her  sister.  Now  she  did  not  look  at 
June  because  she  loved  her  too  much  to  witness  the 
shame  and  pain  that  she  knew  would  be  hers. 

"It's  too  horrible,"  she  continued,  June  uttering  no 
sound.  "I  wouldn't  have  told  you,  but — well,  we  don't 
want  him  coming  here  if  he's  that  sort  of  man.  And 
Mrs.  Newbury — "  she  made  a  gesture  of  angry  dis- 
gust— "what  right  had  she  to  come  here  and  call  on 
us?" 

June  still  said  nothing.  Her  hand  was  lying  on 
the  counterpane  and  Rosamund,  placing  hers  on  it, 
felt  that  it  trembled  and  was  cold.  This,  with  the 
continued  silence,  alarmed  her  and  she  said,  trying 
to  palliate  the  blow, 

"It  seems  so  hard  to  believe  it.  He  was  so  kind  and 
natural  and  jolly  up  at  Foleys,  as  if  he  was  our 
brother." 

"Believe  it!"  exclaimed  June  loudly.  "You  don't 
suppose  /  believe  it?" 

Her  tone  was  high,  almost  violent.  She  jerked 
away  her  hand  and  drew  herself  up  in  the  bed  in  a 
sitting  posture. 

"You  don't  suppose  I'd  believe  a  shameful,  wicked 
story  like  that,  Rosamund  Allen?" 

"But  they  all  said  so,"  stammered  Rosamund,  taken 
aback,  almost  converted  by  the  conviction  opposing 
her. 

"Well,  then,  they  say  what's  not  true,  that's  all! 
They're  liars.  Don't  lots  of  people  tell  lies?  Haven't 
you  found  out  that  down  here  in  the  city  most  of  the 
things  you  hear  aren't  true?  They  just  like  to  spread 
stories  like  that  so  that  people  will  listen  to  them. 


FEMININE  LOGIC  137 

Everybody  wants  to  talk  here  and  nobody  wants  to 
listen.  It's  a  lie — just  a  mean,  cowardly  lie." 

Her  face  was  burning  and  bore  an  expression  of 
quivering  intensity.  Rosamund,  astonished  by  her 
vehemence,  stared  at  her  disquieted. 

"But — but — everybody  thinks  so,"  was  all  she  could 
repeat. 

"Then  they  think  what's  not  so.  Do  you  think  so  ?" 
with  eager  challenge. 

The  other  looked  down,  her  brows  drawn  together 
in  worried  indecision. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  she  said.  "When  he 
comes  up  in  my  mind,  especially  as  he  was  at  Foleys, 
it  seems  as  if  I  couldn't  believe  it  either." 

"There !"  exclaimed  June  triumphantly.  "Of  course 
you  can't.  Nobody  who  has  any  sense  could.  It's 
just  degraded,  low-minded  people  who  have  nothing 
better  to  do  than  spread  scandals  'that  could  believe 
such  a  story  about  such  a  man." 

"But  Mrs.  Newbury,"  demurred  her  sister.  "Why 
did  Uncle  Jim  not  want  us  to  ask  her  to-night?" 

"What's  Mrs.  Newbury  got  to  do  with  it?  I  don't 
know.  I  don't  care  anything  about  her.  I  don't  like 
her.  She  looks  like  a  large  white  seal,  walking  on 
the  tip  of  its  tail.  I  think  she's  common  and  fat  and 
ugly.  But  what  does  she  matter?  If  Mr.  Newbury 
loves  her  he's  got  very  bad  taste,  that's  all  I've  got  to 
say.  And  as  to  Jerry  Barclay  loving  her?  Why, 
Rosamund — "  she  suddenly  dropped  to  her  most 
persuasive  softness  of  tone  and  expression — "you 
know  he  couldn't." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Rosamund.     "I  don't  feel  as 


138  THE  PIONEER 

if  I  knew  anything  about  men,  or  what  they  like,  or 
what  they  don't  like.  You  might  think  Mrs.  New- 
bury  ugly  and  they  might  think  her  beautiful.  You 
never  can  tell.  And  then  those  men  on  the  steps  that 
night  at  Mrs.  Davenport's" — she  shot  an  uneasy 
glance  at  her  sister — "that  was  what  they  meant." 

"Rosie,"  said  June,  leaning  toward  her  and  speak- 
ing with  pleading  emphasis,  "you  don't  believe  it?" 

"I  don't  want  to,  that's  certain." 

"Well,  then,  say  you  don't." 

"I  can't  say  that  positively.    I  wish  I  could." 

She  rose  from  her  seat  and  moved  away,  absently 
drawing  the  hair-pins  from  her  coiled  hair.  June  fell 
back  on  the  pillow. 

"Well,  I  can,"  she  said.  "I  never  felt  more  posi- 
tive about  anything  in  my  life." 

Her  sister  turned  back  to  the  bedside  and  stood 
there  looking  frowningly  down. 

"I  hope  you're  right,"  she  said.  "I'd  hate  to  think 
any  man  like  that  had  ever  come  here  to  see  us  or 
been  a  friend  of  yours." 

"So  would  I,"  said  June  promptly.  "So  would 
any  girl." 

"Well,  good  night.  You're  tired  to  death.  I'll  put 
the  gas  out." 

June  saw  the  tall  white  figure  move  to  the  bureau 
and  then  darkness  fell,  and  she  heard  its  rustling 
withdrawal. 

She  lay  still  for  a  time  staring  at  the  square  of 
light  that  fell  from  her  sister's  room  through  the  open 
door.  Presently  this  disappeared  and  she  moved  her 
eyes  to  the  faint  luminous  line  which  showed  the  sep- 


FEMININE  LOGIC  139 

aration  of  the  window  curtains.  She  was  still  staring 
at  it  wide-eyed  and  motionless  when  it  grew  paler, 
whiter  and  then  warmer  with  the  new  day. 

She  had  spoken  the  truth  when  she  said  she  did 
not  believe  the  ugly  story.  There  are  many  women 
who  have  the  faculty  of  quietly  shutting  a  door  on 
obvious  facts  and  refusing  them  admittance  into  the 
prim  sanctuary  of  their  acceptance.  How  much  more 
might  a  young  girl,  loving,  inexperienced  and  tender, 
refuse  to  believe  a  blasting  rumor  that  had  touched 
a  figure  already  shrined  in  her  heart ! 

But  the  shock  she  suffered  was  severe.  That 
such  a  story  should  be  coupled  with  his  name  was 
revolting  to  her.  And  far  down  in  the  inner  places 
of  her  being,  where  nature  has  placed  in  women  a 
chord  that  thrills  to  danger,  a  creeping  sense  of  dread 
and  fear  stirred.  But  she  smothered  its  warning  vi- 
bration and,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  crack  of  light, 
repeated  over  and  over: 

"Lies!  lies!    Miserable,  cowardly  lies  I" 


CHAPTER  III 

ONE  OF   EVE'S   FAMILY 

It  was  a  few  weeks  after  the  ball  that  the  Colonel 
heard  of  the  expected  arrival  in  town  of  Rion  Gracey 
and  Barney  Sullivan  en  route  to  Virginia  City. 

From  the  great  camp  across  the  mountain  wall  in 
the  Nevada  desert,  an  electric  current  had  begun  to 
thrill  and  extend  its  vibrations  wherever  men  con- 
gregated. The  autumn  rumors  that  Virginia  was  not 
dead  persisted.  The  mutterings  of  the  silver  volcano 
had  grown  louder  and  caught  the  ear  of  the  hurrying 
throng.  The  reports  of  a  strike  in  Crown  Point  rose 
and  fell  like  an  uneasy  tide.  The  price  of  the  stock 
that  in  the  spring  of  seventy  had  sold  for  seventy-five 
cents  had  risen  to  two,  and  then  to  three,  dollars.  Men 
watched  it  disquieted,  loath  to  be  credulous  where  they 
had  so  often  been  the  dupes  of  manager  and  manipu- 
lator, yet  tempted  by  the  oft-repeated  prophecy  that 
the  great  bonanzas  of  Virginia  were  yet  to  be  dis- 
covered. Throughout  California  and  Nevada  the 
miners  that  three  years  before  had  left  the  dying  camp 
as  rats  leave  a  sinking  ship,  began  to  bind  up  their 
packs  and  turn  their  faces  that  way.  It  was  like  the 
first  concentrating  movement  of  a  stealthily  gather- 
ing army.  The  call  of  money  had  gone  thrilling  along 
140 


ONE  OF  EVE'S  FAMILY  141 

the  lines  of  secret  communication  which  connect  man 
with  man. 

The  Graceys  had  large  holdings  in  Virginia.  The 
group  of  unprofitable  claims  consolidated  under  the 
name  of  the  Cresta  Plata  was  theirs,  and  Rion  and 
his  superintendent  were  going  up  "to  take  a  look 
around."  This  was  what  the  Colonel  heard  down 
town.  It  was  a  piece  of  intelligence  that  was  reported 
as  of  weight.  Mining  men  watched  the  movements 
of  the  Gracey  boys  as  those  about  great  rulers  follow 
their  actions  in  an  effort  to  read  their  unexpressed 
intentions.  When  the  Graceys  moved  into  camps  or 
out  of  camps,  operators,  managers  and  financiers  noted 
the  fact.  That  Rion  and  Sullivan  should  take  a  de- 
tour to  San  Francisco  instead  of  going  straight  up 
from  Sacramento  argued  that  their  need  was  not 
pressing. 

The  Colonel  thought  he  knew  why  Rion  had  taken 
such  a  roundabout  route.  He  and  Allen  had  had 
many  conversations  on  the  subject  of  the  match  they 
wished  to  promote  and  had  not  the  least  idea  of 
how  to  set  about  promoting.  The  Colonel  had  also 
tried  to  have  talks  with  June  about  it.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  a  good  way  to  further  the  matter  and  elicit 
some  illuminating  remark  from  her  was  to  tell  her 
at  intervals  that  Rion  Gracey  was  a  man  of  sterling 
worth  in  whose  love  any  woman  would  find  happi- 
ness. To  all  of  which  June  invariably  agreed  with 
an  air  of  polite  acquiescence  which  the  Colonel  found 
very  baffling.  His  pet  was  to  him  the  sweetest  of 
living  women,  but  he  had  to  admit  it  was  not  always 
easy  for  him  to  understand  or  manage  her. 


142  THE  PIONEER 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  he  had  heard  of  Rion's 
expected  arrival  he  had  gone  to  see  the  new  house 
a  friend  had  just  completed  on  Van  Ness  Avenue. 
The  visit  over  he  stood  at  the  top  of  the  flight  of 
stone  steps,  looking  up  and  down  the  great  street, 
and  wondering,  as  he  tapped  on  his  shoe  with  his 
cane,  whether  he  would  go  across  to  Folsom  Street 
for  dinner  or  down  to  his  club. 

Suddenly  his  idle  glance  fell  on  a  pair  of  figures 
on  the  block  above,  walking  with  the  loitering  step 
which  betokens  engrossing  conversation.  Their  backs 
were  toward  him,  but  one  at  least  he  thought  he 
recognized.  He  ran  down  the  steps  and  in  a  few 
minutes  had  gained  on  them  and  was  drawing  quick- 
ly nearer.  He  had  not  been  mistaken.  The  black 
silk  skirt,  held  up  to  reveal  a  pair  of  small  feet  in 
high-heeled  shoes,  the  sealskin  jacket,  the  close-fit- 
ting black  turban  hat,  below  which  hung  an  uneven 
shock  of  short,  brown  curls,  were  too  familiar  to  him 
to  permit  of  any  uncertainty.  The  man  he  was  not 
sure  of,  but  as  he  drew  closer  he  saw  his  face  in 
profile,  and  with  a  start  of  surprised  annoyance  rec- 
ognized Jerome  Barclay. 

At  the  corner  they  turned  up  the  cross  street.  A 
short  distance  farther,  on  the  angle  of  a  small  plaza, 
intruded  into  the  gray  city  vista  a  green  stretch  of 
grass  and  shrubbery.  The  Colonel  wondered  if  it 
was  the  objective  point  of  their  walk,  and  this  thought 
added  to  the  disquietude  he  already  felt  at  the  sight 
of  Barclay,  for  when  people  went  into  parks  they  sat 
on  benches  and  talked,  sometimes  for  hours. 

He  was  close  at  their  heels  before  they  heard  his 


ONE  OF  EVE'S   FAMILY  143 

hail  and  turned.  A  momentary  expression  of  annoy- 
ance, gone  almost  as  soon  as  it  came,  passed  over 
Barclay's  face.  June  looked  confused  and,  for  the 
first  instant,  the  Colonel  saw,  did  not  know  what  to 
say. 

"Well,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  with  genial  un- 
consciousness, "what  are  you  doing  up  here  so  far 
from  your  native  haunts  ?" 

"I  met  Miss  Allen  on  the  avenue  just  below  there," 
said  Jerry  quickly,  "walking  up  this  way  to  make  a 
call  on  some  friends  of  hers." 

He  spoke  with  glib  ease,  but  his  eye,  which  lighted 
for  an  instant  on  June's,  was  imperious  with  a  com- 
mand. June  was  taken  aback  by  his  smooth  readiness. 
She  did  not  like  what  he  said,  but  she  obeyed  the  com- 
manding eye  and  answered  with  stammering  reluc- 
tance : 

"Yes,  the  Nesbits.  I  was  going  there  this  after- 
noon. They're  just  a  block  beyond  here." 

It  was  not  exactly  a  lie,  June  thought,  for  had 
Barclay  not  appeared  she  would  doubtless  have  gone 
to  the  Nesbits,  wondering  all  the  time  what  had  hap- 
pened to  him.  But  Barclay  had  appeared,  as  he  al- 
ways did  now  at  the  time  and  place  he  so  carelessly 
yet  so  scrupulously  designated,  and  June  would  not 
have  seen  the  Nesbits  that  afternoon. 

"Suppose  you  take  a  little  pasear  with  me  instead 
of  going  to  the  Nesbits,"  said  the  Colonel.  "I'm  not 
conceited,  but  I  think  I'm  just  as  interesting  as  they 
are." 

"And  what  are  you  doing  up  here?"  she  said,  her 
presence  of  mind,  and  with  it  her  natural  gaiety  of 


144  THE  PIONEER 

manner,  returning.  "You're  as  far  from  your  native 
haunts  as  I  am." 

"I  was  calling,  too,"  he  answered,  "on  the  Barkers. 
But  7  didn't  meet  any  one  sufficiently  interesting  to 
keep  me  from  fulfilling  my  duties,  and  I  have  seen  the 
new  house  from  the  skylight  to  the  coal-bin." 

"Never  mind,"  she  said  consolingly,  "you've  met 
me.  That's  your  reward  for  good  conduct." 

They  had  arrived  at  the  upper  corner  of  the  plaza 
where  only  the  breadth  of  a  street  divided  them  from 
the  green,  tree-dotted  sward,  cut  with  walks  and  set 
forth  in  benches.  Barclay,  raising  his  hat  and  mur- 
muring some  conventional  words  of  farewell,  turned 
and  left  them,  and  the  Colonel  and  his  companion 
strolled  across  the  road  and  over  the  grass  toward  a 
bench,  behind  which  a  clump  of  laurels  grew  shelter- 
ingly,  a  screen  against  the  wind  and  fog. 

"This  is  the  most  comfortable  of  all  the  benches," 
said  June  artlessly  as  they  sat  down.  "The  laurels 
keep  the  wind  off  like  a  wall.  Even  on  cold  days, 
when  the  fog  comes  in,  it's  a  warm  little  corner." 

"You've  been  here  before,"  said  the  Colonel,  look- 
ing at  her  out  of  the  sides  of  his  eyes. 

A  telltale  color  came  into  her  cheeks,  but  the  city 
and  its  ways  were  training  her,  and  she  managed  to 
exclude  confusion  and  consciousness  from  her  face. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  "several  times.  I  some- 
times rest  here  after  I've  been  taking  a  long  walk." 

"That  must  be  dull,"  said  her  companion.  "I  can't 
see  anything  cheerful  in  sitting  on  a  park  bench  by 
yourself." 

He  looked  at  her  again.    But  his  bungling  mascu- 


ONE  OF  EVE'S  FAMILY  145 

line  line  of  procedure  was  not  of  the  kind  to  entrap 
even  so  untried  a  beginner.  It  made  her  smile  a  lit- 
tle, and  then  she  looked  down  to  hide  the  smile. 

"Wasn't  it  jolly  that  we  met?"  she  said,  stroking 
the  satiny  surface  of  her  new  jacket  and  presenting 
to  his  glance  a  non-committal  profile.  The  Colonel 
knew  her  well  enough  by  this  time  to  realize  that  she 
intended  neither  to  confess  nor  to  be  trapped  into  reve- 
lations of  past  occupancy  of  the  bench.  He  returned 
to  less  intricate  lines  of  converse. 

"Who  do  you  think's  to  be  here  to-morrow?" 

"A  friend?" 

"A  friend  from  Foleys, — Rion  Gracey,  and  Barney 
Sullivan  with  him." 

"Rion  Gracey!"  She  looked  pleased  and  slightly 
embarrassed.  "Really — really !"  She  paused,  her  face 
full  of  smiles,  that  in  some  way  or  other  showed  dis- 
quietude beneath  them. 

"They're  down  from  Foleys  and  going  on  to  Vir- 
ginia in  a  day  or  two.  Queer  they  came  around 
this  way,  wasn't  it?" 

Again  the  Colonel  could  not  keep  from  attempts 
to  plumb  hidden  depths.  Again  his  inspecting  eye 
noticed  a  fluctuation  of  color.  June  was  unquestion- 
ably surprised  by  the  news,  but  he  could  not  be  sure 
whether  she  was  pleased. 

"You'll  have  to  have  them  up  to  dinner,"  he  con- 
tinued. "You  saw  so  much  of  them  last  summer  be- 
fore you  left  that  you'll  have  to  offer  them  some  kind 
of  hospitality." 

"Of  course,"  she  said  hastily,  flashing  an  almost  in- 
dignant look  at  him.  "They'll  take  dinner  with  us, 


146  THE  PIONEER 

or  breakfast,  or  lunch,  or  anything  they  like.  I'd  love 
to  see  them  and  hear  about  everything  up  there.  I 
want  to  hear  how  Barney  Sullivan's  getting  on  with 
Mitty.  I  thought  they'd  be  engaged  by  this  time." 

"Perhaps  they  are" — it  must  be  confessed  that  the 
Colonel's  interest  in  the  love  affairs  of  his  friend  Mitty 
sounded  perfunctory — "I  wish  Rion  was,  too." 

"Yes,"  in  a  small,  precise  voice,  "wouldn't  it  be 
nice?" 

"It  would  make  me  very  happy,"  said  the  Colonel 
gravely,  "very  happy,  June.  You  know  that." 

"Would  it?"  with  a  bright  air  of  innocent  sur- 
prise. "Why?" 

The  Colonel  turned  and  looked  at  her  squarely, 
almost  sternly. 

''You  know  why,  June  Allen,"  he  said. 

She  had  taken  off  her  gloves  and  now  suddenly 
slipped  her  hand  into  his  and  nestled  nearer  to  him. 

"Don't  talk  solemnly,"  she  said,  in  a  coaxing  voice. 
"Don't  make  me  feel  as  if  I  was  in  church." 

He  cast  a  side  glance  at  her,  caught  her  twinkling 
eye,  and  they  both  laughed. 

"You  aggravating  girl !"  he  said.  "It's  all  for  your 
own  good  that  I'm  talking  solemnly.  I  want  you  to 
be  happy." 

"Well,  I  am  happy,  very  happy.  Don't  you  think 
I  look  like  a  person  who's  happy?" 

He  did  not  look  at  her,  and  she  raised  herself,  and 
taking  him  by  the  two  ears  gently  turned  his  face 
toward  her. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said  politely,  "but  as  you  wouldn't 
look  at  me  I  had  to  make  you.  Don't  I  look  happy?" 


ONE  OF  EVE'S  FAMILY  147 

"Happy  enough  now,"  he  answered.  "I  was  think- 
ing of  the  future." 

"Oh,  the  future !" — she  made  a  sweeping  gesture 
of  scorn — "the  future's  so  far  away  no  one  knows 
anything  about  it.  It's  all  secrets.  Let's  not  bother 
with  it.  The  present's  enough." 

Her  hand,  as  she  held  it  up  in  front  of  her,  sud- 
denly caught  her  eye  and  fixed  her  attention. 

"Look  at  my  hands,"  she  said.  "They're  getting 
quite  white  and  ladylike.  They're  losing  their  look 
of  honest  toil,  aren't  they?  How  I've  hated  it!" 

He  held  out  his  big  palm  and  she  placed  her  left 
hand,  which  was  nearest  him,  in  it.  Her  hands  were 
small,  the  skin  beautifully  fine  and  -delicate,  but  they 
showed  the  hard  labor  of  the  past  in  a  blunting  and 
broadening  of  the  finger-tips.  The  Colonel  looked  at 
the  little  one  lying  in  his. 

"I  don't  see  that  there's  anything  the  matter  with 
them,"  he  said.  "This  one  only  wants  one  more  thing." 

"What's  that?" 

"A  ring." 

This  time  June  was  caught. 

"A  ring?"  she  said.  "Well,  I  have  several,  but 
they're  not  very  pretty,  and  I  thought  I'd  wait  till 
father  gave  me  a  really  handsome  one." 

"I  don't  mean  a  handsome  one.  I  mean  a  plain, 
little  gold  one;  just  a  band  and  worn  on  this  finger." 

He  designated  the  third  finger.     June  understood. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Jim !"  she  said,  trying  to  pull  her  hand 
away,  blushing  and  rebellious. 

The  Colonel  held  it  tight,  feeling  the  opportunity 
too  valuable  to  be  trifled  with. 


Z48  THE  PIONEER 

"And  Rion  Gracey  to  put  it  on,"  he  added. 

Her  answer  came  almost  angrily  as  she  turned  away 
her  face. 

"Not  for  a  moment." 

"No,  for  a  lifetime." 

There  was  no  reply  and  the  Colonel  loosed  her  hand. 
She  pushed  it  back  into  her  glove  saying  nothing. 
As  she  began  to  fasten  the  buttons  he  said: 

"Do  you  often  meet  Barclay  when  you  are  out 
walking,  as  you  did  this  afternoon?" 

Women,  who  are  timid  by  nature,  and  who,  com- 
bined with  that  weakness,  have  an  overmastering  de- 
sire to  be  loved  and  approved  of,  are  of  the  stuff  of 
which  the  most  proficient  liars  can  be  made.  Had 
June,  in  childhood,  been  intimidated  or  roughly  treated 
she  would  have  grown  up  a  fluent  and  facile  perverter 
of  the  truth.  The  tender  influences  of  a  home  where 
love  and  confidence  dwelt  had  never  made  it  neces- 
sary for  her  to  wish  to  conceal  her  actions  or  protect 
herself,  and  she  had  grown  to  womanhood  frank,  can- 
did and  truthful.  Now,  however,  she  found  herself 
drawn  into  a  situation  where,  if  she  were  to  continue 
in  the  course  that  gave  her  the  happiness  she  had 
spoken  of,  she  must  certainly  cease  to  be  open,  even 
begin  to  indulge  in  small  duplicities.  It  was  with 
a  sensation  of  shamed  guilt  that  she  answered  care- 
lessly : 

"No,  not  often.     Now  and  then  I  have." 

"Rosamund  says  he  doesn't  come  to  the  house  as 
much  as  he  used." 

This  was  in  the  form  of  a  question,  too. 


ONE  OF  EVE'S  FAMILY  149 

"Doesn't  he?    I  haven't  noticed  much." 

Her  heart  accelerated  its  beats  and  she  felt  suddenly 
unhappy,  as  she  realized  that  she  was  misleading  a 
person  especially  dear  to  her. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,  Junie  dear.  I  don't  like  him  to 
be  hanging  round  you.  He's  not  the  man  to  be  your 
friend." 

June  began  to  experience  a  sense  of  misery. 

"What  are  you  down  on  him  for?"  she  said.  "I 
like  him.  I  like  him  a  great  deal." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  by  thus  openly  voicing  her 
predilection  for  Barclay  she,  in  some  way  or  other, 
atoned  for  her  previous  prevarications. 

"Like  him  a  great  deal?"  repeated  the  Colonel,  star- 
ing somberly  at  her.  "What  does  that  mean?" 

She  was  instantly  alarmed  and  sought  to  obliterate 
the  effect  of  her  words. 

"Oh,  I  like  him  very  much.  I  think  he's  interesting 
and  handsome,  and — and — and — very  nice.  Just  that 
way." 

Nothing  could  have  sounded  more  innocently  tame. 
The  simple  man  beside  her,  who  had  loved  but  one 
woman  and  known  the  honest  friendship  of  others  as 
uncomplex  as  himself,  was  relieved. 

"Barclay's  not  the  man  for  a  good  girl  to  be  friends 
with,"  he  continued  with  more  assurance  of  tone. 
"He's  all  that  you  say,  handsome,  and  well  educated, 
and  a  smooth  talker  and  all  that.  But  his  record  is 
not  the  kind  a  man  likes.  He's  done  things  that 
are  not  what  a  decent  man  does.  I  can't  tell  you. 
I  can't  talk  to  you  about  it.  But  rely  on  me.  I'm 
right." 


150  THE  PIONEER 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  she  answered,  turning  round 
and  looking  calmly  at  him. 

"All  about  it! — about  what?" — he  stammered,  com- 
pletely taken  aback. 

"About  that  hateful  story  of  Mrs.  Newbury." 

The  Colonel's  face  reddened  slightly.  He  had  the 
traditional  masculine  idea  of  the  young  girl  as  a 
being  of  transparent  ignorance,  off  which  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  world  glanced  as  bird-shot  off  the  surface 
of  a  crystal  ball.  Now  he  was  pained  and  shocked, 
not  only  that  June  should  have  heard  the  story  but 
that  she  should  thus  coolly  allude  to  it. 

"Then  if  you've  heard  it,"  he  said  almost  coldly, 
"you  should  know  without  my  telling  you  that  Jerry 
Barclay's  no  man  for  you  to  know,  or  walk  with, 
or  have  any  acquaintance  with." 

"You  don't  suppose  I  believe  it,  do  you?"  she  said 
with  the  same  almost  hard  composure. 

This  indeed  was  a  new  view  of  the  situation.  For 
six  years  the  Colonel  had  heard  the  affair  between 
young  Barclay  and  Mrs.  Newbury  talked  of  and  spec- 
ulated upon.  It  had  now  passed  to  the  stage  of  shelved 
acceptance.  People  no  longer  speculated.  Their  con- 
demnation savored  even  of  the  indifference  of  famil- 
iarity. The  only  thing  that  nobody  did  was  to  doubt. 
And  here  was  a  girl,  looking  him  in  the  face  and  calm- 
ly assuring  him  of  her  disbelief.  Had  he  known  more 
of  women  he  would  have  realized  how  dangerous  a 
portent  it  was. 

"But — but — why  don't  you  believe  it?"  he  asked, 
still  in  the  stage  of  stammering  surprise. 


ONE  OF  EVE'S  FAMILY  151 

"Because  I  know  Mr.  Barclay,"  she  answered  tri- 
umphantly, fixing  him  with  a  kindling  eye. 

"Well,  that  may  be  a  reason,"  said  the  Colonel, 
then  stopped  and  drew  himself  to  an  upright  posi- 
tion on  the  bench.  He  did  not  know  what  to  say. 
Her  belief  in  the  man  he  knew  to  be  guilty  had  in 
it  a  trustfulness  of  youth  that  was  to  him  exceedingly 
pathetic. 

"You  can  believe  just  what  you  like,  dear,"  he 
said  after  a  moment's  pause,  "it's  the  privilege  of 
your  sex.  But  this  time  you'd  better  quit  believing 
and  be  guided  by  me." 

"Why,  Uncle  Jim,"  she  said  leaning  eagerly  toward 
him,  "I'm  not  a  fool  or  a  child  any  more.  Can't  I 
come  to  conclusions  about  people  that  may  be  right? 
I  know  Mr.  Barclay  well,  not  for  as  long  as  you 
have,  but  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  I  knew  him  a 
great  deal  better.  We  saw  him  so  often  and  so  in- 
timately up  at  Foleys,  and  he  couldn't  be  the  kind 
of  a  man  he  is  and  be  mixed  up  in  such  horrible  scan- 
dals. It's  impossible.  He's  a  gentleman,  he's  a  man 
of  honor." 

"Yes,"  nodded  the  Colonel,  looking  at  the  shrubs 
in  front  of  him,  "that's  just  what  he'd  say  he  was 
if  you  asked  him." 

"And  it  would  be  right.  He's  not  capable  of  doing 
dishonorable  things.  He's  above  it.  Rosamund  thinks 
so,  too." 

"Oh,  does  she?"  said  the  Colonel. 

If  he  had  not  been  so  suddenly  stricken  with 
worry  and  foreboding  he  could  not  have  forborne 


152  THE  PIONEER 

a  smile  at  this  citing  of  Rosamund  as  a  court  of  last 
resort. 

"Yes,  Rosamund  said  she  couldn't  believe  it  either. 
If  you  knew  him  as  we  do  you'd  understand  better. 
It's  all  lies.  People  are  always  talking  scandal  in 
this  place — I've  heard  more  since  I  came  here  than 
I  heard  in  the  whole  of  my  life  before.  It's  a  dread- 
ful thing,  I  think,  to  take  away  a  man's  character  just 
for  the  fun  of  talking." 

She  had  spoken  rapidly  and  now  paused  with  an 
air  of  suspended  interest,  which  was  intensified  by 
her  expression  of  eager  questioning.  The  Colonel 
looked  at  her.  In  a  dim  way  she  was  struck,  as  she 
had  been  before,  by  the  intense  melancholy  of  his 
eyes — sad  old  eyes — that  told  of  a  life  unfulfilled,  de- 
vastated, at  its  highest  point  of  promise. 

"June,  dear,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "you're  not  in 
love  with  this  man?" 

The  color  ran  over  her  face  to  the  hair  on  her 
forehead.  The  directness  of  the  question  had  shocked 
her  young  girl's  delicacy  and  pride.  She  tried  to 
laugh,  and  then  with  her  eyes  down-drooped,  said 
in  a  voice  of  hurried  embarrassment: 

"No,  of  course  not." 

He  smiled  in  a  sudden  expansion  of  relief.  All 
was  well  again.  In  his  simplicity  of  heart  it  did  not 
occur  to  him  to  doubt  her. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DANGER    SIGNALS 

Jerome  Barclay  lived  with  his  mother  in  a  new 
house  on  Taylor  Street,  near  Jackson.  They  had 
only  been  there  a  short  time.  Before  that  South  Park 
had  been  their  home.  But  within  the  last  year  or 
two  the  fortunes  of  South  Park  had  shown  symp- 
toms of  decline,  and  when  this  happened  Mrs.  Simeon 
Barclay  had  felt  that  she  must  move. 

Since  her  arrival  in  San  Francisco  in  the  early 
fifties,  Mrs.  Barclay  had  made  many  moves.  These 
were  not  undertaken  because  her  habitats  had  been 
uncomfortable,  but  because  the  fashionable  element 
of  the  city  had  shown  from  the  first  a  migratory 
tendency  which  was  exceedingly  inconvenient  for 
those  who  followed  it.  Mrs.  Barclay  had  followed  it 
assiduously  from  the  day  she  had  landed  from  the 
steamer,  and  had  in  consequence  lived  in  many  local- 
ities, ranging  from  what  was  now  Chinatown  and  in 
the  fifties  had  been  the  most  perfectly  genteel  and 
exclusive  region,  to  the  quietly  dignified  purlieus  of 
Taylor  Street. 

Simeon  Barclay  had  crossed  the  plains  in  an  em- 
igrant train  in  forty-nine,  and  between  that  and  sixty- 
four,  when  he  died,  had  made  a  fair  fortune,  first  as 
153 


154  THE  PIONEER 

a  contractor  and  afterward  as  a  speculator  in  real 
estate.  In  St.  Louis,  his  native  place,  he  had  begun 
life  as  a  carpenter,  seen  but  little  prosperity,  and  mar- 
ried a  pretty  servant  girl,  whose  mind  was  full  of 
distinctly  formed  ambitions.  When  he  went  to  Cali- 
fornia in  the  first  gold  rush  he  left  his  wife  and  son 
behind  him,  and  when,  from  the  carpentering  that  he 
did  with  his  own  hands  in  forty-nine,  he  passed  to 
the  affluent  stage  of  being  a  contractor  in  a  large  way 
of  business,  he  sent  for  her  to  join  him.  This  she  did, 
found  him  with  what  to  their  small  experience  were 
flourishing  fortunes,  and  immediately  started  out  on 
that  career  of  ambulating  fashion  which  she  had  fol- 
lowed ever  since. 

Barclay  senior's  fifteen  years  of  California  life  were 
full  to  the  brim.  He  made  fortunes  and  lost  them, 
lived  hard,  had  his  loves  and  his  hates  openly  and 
unblushingly,  as  men  did  in  those  wild  days,  and  be- 
came a  prominent  man  in  the  San  Francisco  of  the 
early  sixties.  He  had  but  the  one  child,  and  in  him 
the  ambitions  of  both  parents  centered.  The  Missouri 
carpenter  had  never  been  educated.  He  was  always, 
even  at  the  end  of  his  life,  uncertain  in  his  grammar, 
and  his  wife  had  found  it  difficult  to  teach  him  what 
she  called  "table  manners." 

Father  and  mother  had  early  resolved  that  their 
son  should  be  handicapped  by  no  such  deficiencies. 
They  sent  him  to  the  best  schools  there  were  in  San 
Francisco  and  later  to  Harvard.  There  he  was  well 
supplied  with  money,  developed  the  tastes  for  luxu- 
rious living  that  were  natural  to  him,  forgathered 
^with  the  riche'st  and  fastest  men  of  his  class,  and  left 


DANGER  SIGNALS  155 

a  record  of  which  collegians  talked  for  years.  After 
his  graduation  he  traveled  in  Europe  for  a  twelve- 
month, as  a  coping  stone  to  the  education  his  parents 
had  resolved  should  be  as  complete  as  money  could 
compass. 

Shortly  after  his  son's  return  Simeon  Barclay  died 
in  the  South  Park  house.  When  it  came  to  settling 
up  the  estate  it  was  found  that  he  had  left  much  less 
than  had  been  expected.  The  house  and  the  income 
of  a  prudently  invested  eighty  thousand  dollars  was 
all  the  widow  and  son  had  to  their  credit  when  the 
outlying  debts  were  paid.  It  was  not  a  mean  for- 
tune for  the  place  and  the  time,  but  both  were  queru- 
lous and  felt  themselves  aggrieved  by  this  sudden 
lightening  of  what  had  been  for  fifteen  years  a  well- 
filled  purse. 

Jerry,  to  whom  a  pecuniary  stringency  was  one  of 
the  greatest  of  trials,  attempted  to  relieve  the  situ- 
ation by  speculating  in  "feet  on  the  lode"  in  Virginia 
City,  and  quickly  lost  the  major  part  of  his  inherit- 
ance. Even  then  there  was  no  need  for  worry,  as  the 
son  had  been  taken  into  the  business  the  father  had 
built  up,  which  still  flourished.  But  Jerry  showed 
none  of  the  devotion  to  commercial  life  that  had  dis- 
tinguished the  elder  man.  In  his  hands  the  fortunes 
of  Barclay  and  Son,  Real  Estate  Brokers,  rapidly  de- 
clined. He  neglected  the  office,  as  he  did  his  home, 
his  mother,  his  friends.  A  devotion,  more  urgently 
engrossing  and  intoxicating  than  business  could  ever 
be,  had  monopolized  his  thoughts,  his  interests  and 
his  time. 

He  was  twenty- four  when  he  returned  from  Europe, 


156  THE  PIONEER 

handsome,  warm-blooded,  soft-tongued,  a  youth 
framed  for  the  love  of  women.  It  speedily  found  him. 
He  had  not  been  home  six  months  when  his  infatuation 
for  the  wife  of  William  Newbury  was  common  talk. 

She  was  three  years  his  senior,  mismated  to  a  man 
nearly  double  her  age,  dry,  hard,  and  precise.  She 
was  a  woman  of  tragedy  and  passion,  suffering  in 
her  downfall.  She  had  at  first  struggled  fiercely 
against  it,  sunk  to  her  fall  in  anguish,  and  after  it, 
known  contending  conflicts  of  flesh  and  spirit,  when 
she  had  tried  to  break  from  its  bondage'  and  ever 
sunk  again  with  bowed  head  and  sickened  heart.  Peo- 
ple had  wondered  to  see  the  figure  of  Lupe  Newbury 
bent  in  prayer  before  the  altars  of  her  church.  In  her 
girlhood  she  had  not  been  noted  for  her  piety.  Waking 
at  night,  her  husband  often  heard  her  soft  padding 
footfall  as  she  paced  back  and  forth  through  the 
suite  of  rooms  she  occupied.  He  had  never  under- 
stood her,  but  he  loved  her  in  a  sober,  admiring  way, 
showered  money  on  her,  believed  in  her  implicitly. 
This  fond  and  unquestioning  belief  was  the  salt  that 
her  conscience  rubbed  oftenest  and  most  deeply  into 
the  wound. 

In  those  first  years  Jerry  had  given  her  his  promise 
never  to  marry.  He  told  her  repeatedly  that  he  re- 
garded her  as  his  wife ;  if  she  were  ever  free  it  would 
be  his  first  care  to  make  her  so  before  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  But  six  years  had  passed  since  then,  years 
during  which  the  man's  love  had  slowly  cooled,  while 
the  woman's  burned  deeper  with  an  ever-increasing 
fervid  glow.  The  promise  which  had  been  given  in 
the  heat  of  a  passion  that  sought  extravagant  terms 


DANGER  SIGNALS  157 

in  which  to  express  itself,  was  now  her  chief  hold 
upon  him.  In  the  scenes  of  recrimination  that  con- 
stantly took  place  between  them  she  beat  it  about  his 
ears  and  flourished  it  in  his  eyes.  As  she  had  no  cun- 
ning to  deceive  him  in  the  beginning,  she  had  no 
subtilities  to  reawake  old  tenderness,  rekindle  old 
fires.  She  was  as  tempestuously  dark  in  her  despair 
as  she  was  furious  in  her  upbraidings,  melting  in  her 
love.  He  was  sorry  for  her  and  he  was  also  afraid 
of  her.  He  tried  to  please  her,  to  keep  her  in  a  good 
temper,  and  he  refrained  from  looking  into  the  future 
where  his  promise  and  his  fear  of  her,  were  writ 
large  across  his  life. 

It  was  for  his  protection  from  scenes  of  jealousy 
and  tears  that  he  had  conducted  his  friendship  with 
June  in  a  surreptitious  manner.  He  had  the  caution 
of  selfish  natures,  and  the  underhand  course  that  his 
intrigue  necessitated  had  further  developed  it.  He 
wanted  to  please  himself  always  and  to  hurt  no  one, 
because  people,  when  they  are  hurt,  disturb  the  joy- 
ous tenor  of  life.  Now,  where  June  was  concerned, 
he  was  not  doing  any  harm.  He  saw  the  girl  in  a 
perfectly  open  manner  except  that  he  did  not  see  her 
in  her  own  house.  He  had  a  right  to  spare  himself 
the  railings  to  which  he  knew  Lupe  would  subject 
him,  and  which  he  dreaded  as  only  a  man  can  who 
hears  them  from  the  lips  of  a  woman  he  has  ruined 
and  no  longer  loves. 

That  it  was  unfair  to  June  he  would  not  permit  him- 
self to  think.  He  liked  seeing  her  too  much  to  give 
it  up,  so  he  assured  himself  that  it  was  a  harmless 
pleasure  for  both  of  them.  Of  course  he  could  no> 


158  THE  PIONEER 

marry  her.  Even  if  he  were  free  to  do  so  he  had  no 
such  feeling  for  her.  They  were  only  friends. 
Their  conversation  had  never  passed  the  nicely 
designated  limits  of  friendship.  He  had  never 
touched  her  hand  save  in  the  perfunctory  pressure 
of  greeting  and  farewell.  His  respect  for  June  was 
genuine,  only  it  was  not  as  strong  as  his  regard  for 
his  own  pleasure  and  amusement. 

Yet,  despite  the  assurances  of  the  platonic  coolness 
of  his  sentiments,  his  desire  for  her  society  grew 
with  what  it  fed  on.  When  by  some  engagement, 
impossible  to  be  evaded,  they  could  not  take  their  ac- 
customed walk  together,  he  was  filled  with  an  un- 
reasonable disappointment,  and  was  almost  angry  with 
her  till  she  should  appear  again. 

On  the  last  occasion  the  Colonel  had  interrupted 
them  only  a  few  minutes  after  they  had  met.  Jerry, 
cheated  of  the  hour  he  had  intended  spending  on  the 
park  bench  with  her,  left  them  in  a  rage.  And  so  im- 
perative was  his  wish  to  see  her  that  the  next  evening, 
indifferent  to  the  fact  that  he  would  probably  find 
the  Colonel  there,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  the 
house  on  Folsom  Street  and  pay  one  of  his  rare  calls. 

Rion  Gracey  and  Barney  Sullivan  were  dining  with 
the  Aliens  that  night.  There  was  much  to  talk  about 
and  the  party  sat  long  over  the  end  of  dinner,  the 
smoke  of  the  men's  cigars  lying  in  light  layers  across 
the  glittering  expanse  of  the  table.  There  were  cham- 
pagne glasses  beside  each  plate,  the  bubbles  rising  in 
the  slender  stems  to  cluster  along  the  rim.  These 
had  appeared  midway  in  the  dinner,  when,  with  much 


DANGER  SIGNALS  159 

stumbling  and  after  repeated  promptings  and  urgings 
from  Rion,  Barney  Sullivan  had  announced  his  en- 
gagement to  Summit  Bruce. 

With  glasses  held  aloft  the  party  pledged  Mitty 
and  her  lover.  The  encomiums  of  his  fiancee 
which  followed  made  Barney  even  redder  than  the 
champagne  did. 

"Oh,  there's  nothin'  the  matter  with  Mitt,"  he  said 
with  a  lover's  modesty,  "I  ain't  gone  it  blind  choosin' 
her." 

"Mitty  Bruce!"  the  Colonel  exclaimed.  "Mitty 
Bruce  is  the  finest  girl  in  the  California  foot-hills !" 

"I  guess  Barney  thinks  just  about  that  way,"  Rion 
answered,  forbearing  to  stare  at  the  blushing  face 
of  his  superintendent. 

"Oh,  Mitt's  all  there!"  Barney  repeated,  allowing 
himself  a  slight  access  of  enthusiasm.  "She's  just 
about  on  top  of  the  heap." 

Greatly  to  his  relief  the  conversation  soon  left  his 
immediate  affairs  and  branched  out  to  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  little  Foleys  group.  Black  Dan  was 
still  at  the  Buckeye  Belle.  His  daughter  was  at 
school  in  New  York  where  she  had  been  sent  in  the 
autumn  at  her  own  request.  The  girls  asked  anx- 
iously after  her.  The  few  glimpses  they  had  had 
of  the  spoiled  beauty  had  inflamed  their  imagina- 
tions. It  seemed  part  of  the  elegant  unusualness  which 
appertained  to  her  that  she  should  be  sent  to  New 
York  to  finish  her  education,  with  beyond  that  a  pol- 
ishing year  or  two  of  European  travel. 

"How  wonderful  she'll  be  when  she  comes  back," 


160  THE  PIONEER 

Rosamund  had  said  with  an  unenvious  sigh.  "Per- 
fectly beautiful  and  knowing  everything  like  the  her- 
oine of  a  novel." 

A  slight  trace  of  bitterness  was  noticeable  in  Rion's 
answer. 

"I  think  she'd  have  been  a  good  deal  more  wonder- 
ful if  she'd  stayed  here.  She's  just  the  apple  of  her 
father's  eye,  the  thing  he  lives  for.  And  now,  unless 
he  goes  East,  and  that's  almost  impossible  with  things 
waking  up  this  way  in  Virginia,  he  may  not  see  her 
for  a  year  or  two." 

The  mention  of  Virginia  broke  the  spell  of  gossip 
and  small  talk  and  the  conversation  settled  down  to 
the  discussion  of  the  business,  which,  in  different  de- 
grees, absorbed  the  four  men.  It  was  curious  to  notice 
the  change  wrought  in  them  by  this  congenial  theme. 
Sullivan's  uncouthness  and  embarrassment  fell  from 
him  with  the  first  words.  His  whole  bearing  was 
transformed ;  it  became  infused  with  alertness  and 
gained  in  poise  and  weight.  The  heaviness  of  his 
visage  gave  place  to  a  look  of  sharpened  concentration. 
His  very  voice  took  on  different  tones,  quick,  sure  and 
decisive. 

But  it  was  to  Rion  Gracey  that  the  others  deferred. 
June,  sitting  silent  in  her  chair,  noticed  that  when  he 
spoke  they  listened,  Sullivan  with  foxlike  keenness  of 
face,  the  Colonel  with  narrowed  eyes,  ponderingly 
attentive  over  his  cigar,  her  father  with  a  motion- 
less interest  showing  in  knit  brows  and  debating 
glance.  Leaning  back  in  an  attitude  of  careless  ease, 
Rion  spoke  simply  but  with  a  natural  dominance,  for 


DANGER  SIGNALS  161 

here  he  was  master.  A  thrill  of  surprised  admira- 
tion passed  through  the  girl.  He  was  a  man  among 
men,  a  leader  by  weight  of  authority,  to  whom  the 
others  unconsciously  yielded  the  foremost  place. 

The  room  was  dim  with  smoke  when  they  finally 
rose  from  the  table.  The  mining  discussion  was  still 
in  progress,  but  Rion  dropped  out  of  it  to  turn  to  his 
hostess  and  draw  back  her  chair.  As  he  did  so  he 
leaned  over  her  shoulder  and  said  in  a  lowered  voice: 

"It's  too  bad  I've  got  to  go  on  to-morrow.  I  wanted 
to  see  you  again.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you." 

The  words  were  simple  enough.  The  young  girl, 
however,  looking  uneasy,  turned  to  glance  at  him.  She 
met  his  eyes,  keen,  deep-set,  quiet,  the  eyes  of  the  out- 
door man  accustomed  to  range  over  airy  distances. 
In  them  she  saw  a  look  which  caused  her  to  drop  her 
own.  Murmuring  a  word  or  two  of  reply  she  turned 
and  passed  through  the  doorway  into  the  sitting-room 
just  behind  Rosamund.  That  young  woman  suddenly 
felt  her  arm  pressed  by  a  small,  cold  hand,  and  in 
her  ear  heard  a  whisper: 

"Don't  leave  me  alone  this  evening  with  Rion  Gra- 
cey.  Please  don't." 

Rosamund  turned  and  shot  an  inquiring  side-glance 
at  her  sister's  perturbed  face.  She  strolled  toward 
the  sitting-room  bay-window  and  began  to  arrange  the 
curtains,  June  at  her  heels. 

"Why  not  ?"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  pulling  the  heavy 
folds  together. 

"I'm  afraid  of  what  he's  going  to  say.  Oh, 
please" — with  as  much  urgency  as  the  low  tone  em- 


162  THE  PIONEER 

ployed  permitted — "if  he  suggests  that  we  go  into 
the  drawing-room  to  look  at  photographs  or  albums 
or  anything,  you  come  along,  too." 

"But  why?" 

"Rosie,  don't  be  such  a  fool!"  in  an  angry  whis- 
per. 

Rosamund  was  about  to  retort  with  some  spirit 
when  the  click  of  the  iron  gate  caught  her  ear.  She 
drew  back  the  curtains  and  peeped  out.  A  step  sounded 
on  the  flagged  walk  and  a  tall,  masculine  figure  took 
shape  through  the  density  of  the  fog-thickened  atmos- 
phere. She  closed  the  curtains  and  looked  at  June 
with  an  unsmiling  eye. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  of  being  left  alone  with 
anybody,"  she  said.  "Here's  Jerry  Barclay." 

June  drew  back,  her  eyebrows  raised  into  exclam- 
atory semi-circles,  an  irrepressible  smile  on  her  lips. 

"Rosamund,"  called  Allen  from  the  table,  "where's 
the  ash  receiver?  Gracey's  got  nothing  to  put  his 
ashes  in  but  the  blue  satin  candy  box  one  of  June's 
young  men  gave  her  for  Christmas." 

The  entrance  of  Jerry  Barclay  a  moment  later  had 
a  marked  effect  upon  the  company.  He  was  known 
to  the  four  men  and  not  especially  liked  by  any  one  of 
them.  The  Colonel  had  begun  to  feel  for  him  a 
sharp,  disquieted  repugnance.  The  one  person  in  the 
room  to  whom  his  entrance  afforded  pleasure  was 
June,  and  this  she  made  an  effort  to  hide  under  a 
manner  of  cold  politeness. 

An  immediate  constraint  fell  on  the  party  which 
the  passage  of  the  evening  did  not  dispel.  Gracey 
was  angry  that  the  advent  of  this  man  whom  he  men- 


DANGER  SIGNALS  163 

tally  characterized  as  "a  damned  European  dandy" 
had  deprived  him  of  a  tete-a-tete  with  June.  He  had 
not  intended,  as  the  young  girl  feared,  to  ask  her  to 
marry  him.  He  had  the  humility  of  a  true  lover  and 
he  felt  that  he  dared  not  broach  that  subject  yet.  But 
he  had  hoped  for  an  hour's  converse  with  her  to  take 
with  him  on  his  journey  as  a  sweet,  comforting  mem- 
ory. Sullivan  detested  Jerry,  whose  manner  he  found 
condescending,  turned  from  him,  and  began  talking 
with  an  aggressive  indifference  to  his  host.  But  the 
Colonel  was  the  most  disturbed  of  all.  What  worried 
him  was  the  difference  between  June's  manner  to 
Jerry  to-day,  when  others  were  present,  and  June's 
manner  to  Jerry  yesterday,  when  they  had  been  walk- 
ing alone  on  Van  Ness  Avenue. 

By  eleven  o'clock  they  had  gone  and  Allen  having 
stolen  to  bed,  the  sisters  were  left  together  in  the 
sitting-room.  They  were  silent  for  a  space,  Rosa- 
mund moving  about  to  put  out  lights,  give  depressed 
cushions  a  restoring  pat,  and  sweep  the  ashes  of  the 
fire  into  a  careful  heap  beneath  the  grate,  while  June 
idly  watched  her  from  the  depths  of  an  arm-chair. 

"Aren't  people  funny?"  said  the  younger  sister  sud- 
denly, turning  from  her  kneeling  position  on  the  rug, 
the  hearth-brush  in  her  hand.  "They  seem  to  be  so 
different  in  different  places." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  June  absently.  "Who's 
different  in  a  different  place?" 

"Well,  Barney  is.  He's  all  right  and  looks  just  as 
good  as  anybody  up  at  the  mines.  And  down  here 
he's  entirely  different,  he  looks  so  red,  and  his  feet 
are  so  big,  and  his  hands  never  seem  to  know  where 


164  THE  PIONEER 

to  go  unless  he's  talking  about  mining  things.  His 
clothes  never  looked  so  queer  up  at  Foleys,  did  they: 
They  seemed  just  like  everybody  else's  clothes  up 
there." 

"Oh,  Barney's  all  right,"  returned  the  other,  evi- 
dently taking  scant  interest  in  the  problem.  "I'm 
glad  he  and  Mitty  are  going  to  be  married." 

"But  Rion  Gracey's  not  like  that,"  continued  Ros- 
amund, pursuing  her  own  line  of  thought.  "He's 
just  the  same  everywhere.  I  think  he  looks  better 
down  here.  He  looks  as  if  he  were  somebody,  some- 
body of  importance.  He  even  makes  other  people, 
that  look  all  right  when  he's  not  by,  seem  sort  oi 
small  and  insignificant." 

"Whom  did  he  make  look  small  and  insignificant?" 
said  June  suddenly  in  a  key  of  pugnacious  interest. 

"Jerry  Barclay.  I  thought  Jerry  Barclay  looked 
quite  ordinary  and  as  if  he  didn't  amount  to  much 
beside  Rion.  The  things  he  said  seemed  snappish 
and  sometimes  silly,  like  what  a  girl  says  when  she's 
cross  and  is  trying  to  pretend  she  isn't." 

"I  don't  think  it  very  polite,  Rosamund,"  said  June 
in  a  coldly  superior  tone,  "to  criticize  people  and  talk 
them  over  when  they've  hardly  got  out  of  the  house." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  isn't,"  said  Rosamund  contritely, 
returning  to  her  hearth-brushing,  "but  like  lots  of 
other  things  that  aren't  just  right  it's  awfully  hard 
not  to  do  it  sometimes." 

The  girls  went  up  stairs  and  June  was  silent.  Rosa- 
mund thought  she  was  still  annoyed  by  the  criticism 
of  her  friend,  and  so  she  was.  For  deep  in  her  own 
heart  the  thought  that  Rosamund  had  given  voice  to 


DANGER  SIGNALS  165 

had  entered,  paining  and  shocking  her  by  its  disloy- 
alty, and  making  her  feel  a  sense  of  resentment  against 
Rion  Gracey. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  GREAT   GOD   PAN 

In  the  spring  in  San  Francisco  the  trade  winds  come 
and  all  wise  Californians  move  inland.  In  the  early 
seventies  the  exodus  to  the  country  was  not  noticeably 
large.  Rural  hotels  were  still  small  and  primitive. 
To  be  able  to  evade  the  fog-laden  breath  of  the  trades 
was  the  luxury  of  the  well-to-do,  and  the  well-to-do 
evaded  them  by  retiring  to  country  houses  which 
dotted  the  teeming  reaches  of  the  Santa  Clara  Val- 
ley, or  sought  the  shelter  of  the  live-oaks  where  the 
golden  floor  of  the  valley  slopes  up  into  the  undula- 
tions of  the  hills. 

The  Aliens  moved  down  early  in  April.  Their 
father,  after  an  afternoon's  excursion  in  a  buggy 
with  a  real  estate  agent,  came  back  one  evening  and 
told  them  he  had  rented  the  De  Soto  house,  back  of 
San  Mateo,  for  three  years,  and  they  must  be  ready 
to  move  into  it  in  a  week. 

He  was  full  of  business  and  hurry  in  these  days, 
and  said  he  could  not  help  them  much.  Neither  would 
he  be  with  them  a  great  deal,  as  he  would  spend 
most  of  his  summer  in  town  with  occasional  trips 
to  Virginia  City.  Crown  Point  was  steadily  rising 
and  the  rumors  of  a  new  bonanza  were  on  every 
166 


THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  167 

tongue.  Rion  Gracey  had  not  returned,  and  Black 
Dan  had  ridden  over  the  mountains  into  the  Nevada 
camp  on  his  own  horse,  a  dislike  for  modern  modes 
of  locomotion  being  one  of  his  peculiarities.  Allen 
had  bought  heavily  of  the  rising  stock  and  seen  him- 
self on  the  road  to  even  more  dazzling  fortune.  He 
had  rented  the  De  Soto  place  for  the  highest  price 
any  real  estate  agent  had  yet  dared  to  ask.  People 
who  knew  of  the  rate  of  his  expenditure  talked  of  a 
beggar  on  horseback.  But  the  Barranca  was  paying 
well  and  the  twenty-stamp  mill  was  up  and  going. 

The  De  Soto  estate  was  part  of  the  princely  grant 
that  the  Senorita  Esperanza  de  Soto  brought  as  a  mar- 
riage portion  to  her  husband,  Peter  Kelley,  a  sailor 
from  a  New  England  clipper  which  touched  at  Yerba 
Buena  in  thirty-eight.  At  the  time  the  Aliens  rented 
it,  part  of  the  great  tract  had  been  parceled  out  and 
sold  to  householders.  The  central  portion,  where  Peter 
and  the  Senora  Kelley  had  built  a  stately  home,  was 
practically  as  it  had  been  when  the  Yankee  seaman 
first  ranged  over  it  and  realized  the  riches  of  his 
bride.  Now  both  sailor  and  seiiora  were  dead,  and 
their  only  son,  Tiburtio  Kelley,  preferred  a  life  in 
Paris  on  the  large  fortune  accumulated  by  his  thrifty 
father,  to  the  dolce  far  niente  of  empty,  golden  days 
in  the  Santa  Clara  Valley. 

This  central  strip  of  the  tract,  which  ran  from  the 
valley  up  into  the  first  spurs  of  the  hills,  was  still  a 
virgin  wilderness.  Huge  live-oaks,  silvered  with  a 
hoar  of  lichen,  stretched  their  boughs  in  fantastic 
frenzies.  Gray  fringes  of  moss  hung  from  them,  and 
tangled  screens  of  clematis  and  wild  grape  caught 


168  THE  PIONEER 

the  sunlight  in  their  flickering  meshes  or  lay  over 
mounds  of  foliage  like  a  torn  green  veil.  The  silence 
of  an  undesecrated  nature  dreamed  over  all.  Wood- 
land life  seldom  stirred  the  dry  undergrowth,  the 
rustle  of  nesting  birds  was  rare  in  the  secret  leafy 
depths  of  the  oaks.  Here  and  there  the  murmurous 
dome  of  the  stone  pine  soared  aloft,  the  clouded  dusk 
of  its  foliage  almost  black  against  the  sky. 

For  nearly  two  miles  the  carriage  drive  wound 
upward  through  this  sylvan  solitude.  As  it  approached 
the  house  a  background  of  emerald  lawns  shone 
through  the  interlacing  of  branches,  and  brilliant  bits 
of  flower  beds  were  set  like  pieces  of  mosaic  between 
gray  trunks.  The  drive  took  a  sweep  around  a  cir- 
cular parterre  planted  in  geraniums — a  billowing  bank 
of  color  under  a  tent  of  oak  boughs — and  ended  in  a 
wide,  graveled  space  at  the  balcony  steps. 

The  house  was  a  spreading,  two-story  building  of 
wood,  each  floor  surrounded  by  a  deep  balcony  upon 
which  lines  of  French  windows  opened.  Flowering 
vines  overhung,  climbed  and  clung  about  the  bal- 
cony pillars  and  balustrades.  Roses  drooped  in  heavy- 
headed  cascades  from  second-story  railings ;  the  wide 
purple  flowers  of  the  clematis  climbed  aloft.  On  one 
wall  a  heliotrope  broke  in  lavender  foam  and  the 
creamy  froth  of  the  bankshur  rose  dabbled  railings 
and  pillars  and  dripped  over  on  to  the  ground.  It  was 
a  big,  cool,  friendly  looking  house  with  a  front  door 
that  in  summer  was  always  open,  giving  the  ap- 
proaching visitor  a  hospitable  glimpse  of  an  airy,  un- 
encumbered hall. 

The  move  completed,  June  and  Rosamund  began  to 


THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  169 

taste  the  charm  of  the  Californian's  summer  life. 
There  were  no  hotels  near  them.  No  country  club 
had  yet  risen  to  bring  the  atmosphere  of  the  city  into 
the  suave  silence  of  the  hills.  It  was  a  purely  rural 
existence:  driving  and  riding  in  the  morning,  read- 
ing in  the  hammock  under  the  trees,  receiving  callers 
on  the  balcony  in  the  warm,  scented  end  of  the  after- 
noon, going  out  to  dinner  through  the  dry,  dewless 
twilight  and  coming  home  under  the  light  of  large, 
pale  stars  in  a  night  which  looked  as  transparently 
dark  as  the  heart  of  a  black  diamond. 

They  were  sometimes  alone,  but,  as  a  rule,  the 
house  contained  guests.  The  Colonel  at  first  came 
down  constantly,  always  from  Saturday  to  Monday 
and  now  and  then  for  a  week-day  evening.  But  in 
May  the  sudden  leap  of  Crown  Point  to  one  hundred 
and  eighty  upset  the  tranquillity  of  even  cooler  natures 
than  Jim  Parrish's,  and  the  stock  exchange  became 
the  center  of  men's  lives.  The  long  expected  bonanza 
had  been  struck.  The  San  Franciscans,  once  more 
restored  to  confidence  in  the  great  lode,  were  seized 
with  their  old  zest  of  speculation,  and  all  the  world 
bought  Crown  Point.  Allen  saw  himself  on  the  road 
to  a  second  fortune,  and  threw  his  money  about  in 
Virginia  with  an  additional  gusto,  as  it  had  been  the 
scene  of  some  of  his  poorest  days. 

Even  the  Colonel  was  attacked  by  the  fever  and 
invested.  His  financial  condition  had  given  him 
grounds  for  uneasiness  lately,  and  here  was  the  chance 
to  repair  it.  A  mine  in  Shasta,  in  which  he  had  been 
a  large  owner,  shut  down.  He  owned  property  in 
South  Park,  and  the  real  estate  agents  were  beginning 


170  THE  PIONEER 

to  shake  their  heads  at  the  mention  of  South  Park 
property.  It  surprised  him  to  realize  that  for  the  first 
time  in  years  he  was  short  of  ready  money.  He  sold 
two  buildings  far  out  among  the  sand  dunes  on  upper 
Market  Street,  and  with  the  rest  of  his  kind  bought 
Virginia  mining  stock  with  Crown  Point  and  Belcher 
at  the  head. 

Under  the  live-oaks  back  of  San  Mateo  the  girls 
only  faintly  heard  the  rising  rush  of  the  excitement. 
The  current  circled  away  from  their  peaceful  corner, 
lapped  now  and  then  by  a  belated  ripple.  The  country 
life  they  both  loved  filled  them  with  contentment  and 
health.  Rosamund  took  to  gardening  again.  Her 
face  shaded  by  a  large  Mexican  hat,  she  might  be 
seen  of  a  morning  in  confab  with  the  Irish  gardener, 
astonishing  him  by  her  practical  knowledge.  In  the 
evening  she  surreptitiously  "hosed"  the  borders,  wish- 
ing that  her  visitors  would  go  back  to  town  and  leave 
her  to  the  peaceful  pursuit  of  the  work  she  delighted 
in  and  understood. 

June  was  not  so  energetic.  She  did  not  garden  or 
do  much  of  anything,  save  now  and  then  go  for  a 
walk  in  the  wild  parts  of  the  grounds. 

As  might  be  expected,  Mrs.  Barclay  always  moved 
down  to  San  Mateo  in  April.  She  was  not  rich  enough 
to  own  a  large  country  place,  but  she  did  the  best  that 
was  in  her  and  rented  a  pretty  cottage  outside  the  vil- 
lage. Here  Jerry  came  from  town  every  Saturday 
and  stayed  till  Monday  morning,  and  to  her  surprise 
not  infrequently  appeared  unannounced  on  week-day 
afternoons,  saying  that  business  was  dull,  and  there 
was  no  necessity  waiting  about  in  town.  The  year 


THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  171 

before  she  had  complained  greatly  that  her  son's  vis- 
its to  San  Mateo  were  rare.  This  summer  she  had 
no  such  grievance.  He  kept  a  horse  in  her  small 
stable,  and  as  soon  as  he  arrived  had  it  saddled  and 
went  out  for  a  ride.  Sometimes  on  Sunday  he  rode 
over  and  called  on  the  Aliens,  but  there  were  other 
people  to  visit  in  the  neighborhood  and  he  did  not  go 
to  the  Aliens' — so  he  told  his  mother — as  often  as  he 
would  have  liked. 

The  direction  he  took  on  the  week-day  afternoons 
was  always  the  same.  No  rain  falls  during  the  Cali- 
fornia summer,  there  are  no  dark  hours  of  thunder 
and  cloud;  it  is  a  long  procession  of  blue  and  gold 
days,  steeped  in  ardent  sunshine,  cooled  by  vagrant 
airs,  drowsy  with  aromatic  scents — a  summer  made 
for  lovers'  trysts. 

Half-way  up  the  winding  drive  to  the  De  Soto 
house  Jerry  had  learned  there  was  a  path  through 
the  underbrush  which  led  to  an  opening,  deep  in  the 
sylvan  wilderness,  under  the  thick-leaved  roof  of  an 
oak.  It  had  been  a  favorite  spot  of  the  late  Senora 
Kelley's,  and  all  the  poison  oak  had  been  uprooted. 
With  the  canopy  of  the  tree  above — a  ceiling  of 
green  mosaic  in  which  the  twisted  limbs  were  im- 
bedded— and  the  screen  of  lightly  hung,  flickering 
leafage  encircling  it,  it  was  like  a  woodland  room,  the 
bower  of  some  belated  dryad. 

Sometimes  Jerry  had  to  wait  for  her,  and  lying 
prone  on  the  ground,  his  horse  tethered  to  a  tree 
trunk  near  by,  lay  looking  up,  his  senses  on  the  alert 
to  catch  her  step.  Sometimes  she  was  there  first,  and 
as  he  brushed  through  the  covert,  he  saw  her  dress 


i;2  THE  PIONEER 

gleaming  between  the  leaves  in  a  spattering  of  white. 
His  heart  was  beginning  to  beat  hard  at  the  sound 
of  her  advancing  footfall.  While  he  waited  for  her 
he  thought  of  nothing,  his  whole  being  held  in  a  hush 
of  expectancy.  When  she  came  he  found  it  difficult 
for  the  first  moment  to  speak  easily. 

On  an  afternoon  early  in  June  he  sat  thus  waiting. 
All  the  morning  the  thought  of  this  meeting  had  filled 
his  mind,  coming  between  him  and  his  business.  On 
the  train  coming  down  the  anticipation  of  it  held  him 
in  a  trance-like  quietude.  He  talked  little  to  his 
mother  at  lunch.  He  kept  seeing  June  as  she  came 
into  sight  between  the  small,  delicately  leaved 
branches,  dots  of  sun  dancing  along  her  dress,  her 
eyes,  shy  and  full  of  delight,  peeping  through  the 
leaves  for  him.  He  answered  his  mother's  ques- 
tions at  random  and  ate  but  little.  The  picture  of  the 
white-clad  girl  grew  in  intensity,  striking  him  into 
motionless  reverie,  so  that,  his  eyes  fixed,  he  seemed 
scarcely  to  breathe. 

It  was  very  warm.  Lying  on  his  back  on  the  dried 
grass,  his  hands  clasped  under  his  head,  he  gazed 
straight  before  him  at  the  long  fringes  of  moss  that 
hung  from  a  gnarled  bough.  His  senses  were  focused 
in  an  effort  to  disentangle  her  footstep  from  the 
drowsy  noises  of  the  afternoon.  All  scruples,  appre- 
hensions of  danger,  were  swept  away  by  the  hunger 
for  her  presence.  His  mind  had  room  for  no  other 
thought.  Every  nerve  was  taut,  every  sense  quiver- 
ingly  alert,  as  he  lay,  still  as  a  statue,  waiting  for  her. 

Suddenly  he  rose  on  his  elbow  staring  sidewise  in 
the  concentration  of  hi^  Attention.  The  subdued,  regu- 


THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  173 

lar  brush  of  her  dress  against  the  leaves  came  softly 
through  the  murmurous  quietness.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet,  strangely  grave,  his  glance  on  the  path  she  came 
by.  In  a  moment  her  figure  speckled  the  green  with 
white,  and  she  came  into  view,  hurrying,  sending 
sharp,  exploring  looks  before  her.  She  saw  him,  in- 
stantly fell  to  a  slower  pace,  and  tried  to  suppress 
the  gladness  of  her  expression.  But  he  saw  it  all,  and 
the  quick  breath  that  lifted  her  breast.  Her  hand 
hardly  touched  his,  and  moving  a  little  away  from 
him,  she  sank  down  on  the  ground,  her  white  skirts 
billowing  round  her.  She  pressed  them  into  folds 
with  arranging  pats,  avoiding  his  eyes,  and  repeating 
some  commonplaces  of  greeting. 

Jerry  returned  to  his  reclining  posture,  lying  on 
his  side,  his  elbow  in  the  grass,  his  hand  supporting 
his  head.  He,  at  first,  made  no  pretense  of  moving 
his  eyes  from  her,  and  answered  her  remarks  shortly 
and  absently. 

Against  the  background  of  variegated  greens  she 
presented  a  harmony  of  clear,  thin  tints  like  a  water 
color.  Her  dress  of  sheer,  white  muslin  was  cut 
away  from  the  throat  in  a  point,  and  smoothly  cov- 
ering her  arms  and  neck,  let  them  be  seen  beneath 
its  crisp  transparency,  warmly  white  under  the  cold 
white  of  the  material.  The  heat  of  the  afternoon 
and  the  excitement  of  the  meeting  had  called  up  a 
faint  pink  to  her  cheeks.  In  her  belt  she  had  thrust 
a  branch  of  wistaria  and  the  trail  of  blossoms  hung 
down  along  her  skirt.  She  wore  a  wide  leghorn  hat, 
and  in  this  she  had  fastened  another  bunch,  the  flow- 
ers lying  scattered  across  the  broad  rim,  and  one 


174  THE  PIONEER 

spray  hanging  over  its  edge  and  mingling  with  the 
curls  that  touched  her  neck. 

Jerry  had  never  seen  her  look  as  she  did  this  after- 
noon. Love,  that  she  felt  assured  was  returned,  had 
lent  her  the  fleeting  beauty  of  an  hour.  She  did  not 
seek  to  penetrate  the  future.  The  happiness  of  the 
present  sufficed  her.  She  said  little,  plucking  at  a  tuft 
of  small  wild  flowers  that  grew  beside  her,  con- 
scious to  her  inmost  fiber  of  her  lover's  eyes. 

"Why  don't  you  take  off  your  hat?"  he  said. 
"There's  no  sun  here." 

She  obediently  took  it  off  and  threw  it  on  the 
ground.  The  black  velvet  she  wore  around  her  head 
had  become  disarranged  and  she  raised  her  hands  to 
draw  it  into  place  and  tuck  a  loosened  curl  under  its 
restraint.  He  watched  her  fixedly. 

"Now,"  he  said,  reaching  out  to  draw  the  hat  to 
him  and  taking  one  of  the  wistaria  blossoms  from 
it,  "put  this  in." 

"I  have  no  glass,"  she  demurred,  stretching  a  hand 
for  the  flower. 

"That  doesn't  matter.  I'll  be  your  glass.  I'll  tell 
you  if  it  isn't  all  right." 

She  tucked  the  stem  of  the  blossom  into  the  velvet 
band,  so  that  its  trail  of  delicate  lavender  bells  fell 
downward  behind  her  ear. 

"How  is  that  ?"  she  said,  facing  him,  her  eyes  down- 
cast. Her  coquetries  of  manner  had  deserted  her. 
With  the  flush  on  her  face  a  glowing  pink  and  her 
lashes  on  her  cheeks,  she  was  a  picture  of  uneasy 
embarrassment. 

"Perfect,"  he  answered.     He  continued  to  stare  at 


THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  175 

her  for  a  moment  and  then  said  suddenly  in  a  low 
voice, 

"Good  heavens,  how  you've  changed!  It's  a  little 
over  a  year  now  that  I've  known  you  and  you're  an 
entirely  different  person  from  the  girl  with  the  short 
hair  I  met  up  at  Foleys.  What  have  you  done  to 
yourself?  What  is  it  that  has  changed  you?" 

"I  think  it's  because  I'm  happy,"  she  said,  be- 
ginning again  to  pick  the  wild  flowers. 

"Why  are  you  happy?" 

"I  don't  know.  It's  hard  to  say.  I — "  she  paused 
and  began  to  arrange  her  flowers  in  a  careful  bunch. 

He  suddenly  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  ground  and 
there  was  a  silence.  The  sleepy  murmur  of  insects 
rose  upon  it.  The  sun,  in  an  effort  to  penetrate  the 
inclosure,  scattered  itself  in  intermittent  Bickerings 
of  brilliant  light  that  shifted  in  golden  spots  along 
the  tree  trunks  or  came  diluted  through  the  webbing 
of  twigs  and  vine  tendrils.  It  was  still  very  hot  and 
the  balsamic  odors  of  bay-tree  and  pine  seemed  to 
grow  more  intense  with  the  passing  of  the  hour. 

"You  were  such  a  quiet  little  thing  up  there,"  Jerry 
went  on,  "working  like  a  man  in  that  garden  of  yours 
and  never  wanting  to  go  anywhere.  Things  down 
here  may  have  made  you  happy,  but  I  sometimes 
wonder  if  they  haven't  made  you  frivolous,  too." 

When  Jerry  ceased  staring  at  her  and  began  to  talk 
in  this  familiar,  half-bantering  strain,  she  felt  more 
at  ease,  less  uncomfortable  and  conscious.  She  seized 
the  opening  with  eagerness  and  said,  smiling  down 
at  her  little  bouquet : 

"But  you  know  I  am  frivolous.     I  love  parties  and 


176  THE  PIONEER 

pretty  clothes  and  lots  of  money  to  spend,  and  all  the 
good  times  going.  I  was  that  way  at  Foleys,  only 
I  didn't  have  any  of  those  things.  I  can  be  serious, 
too,  if  it's  necessary.  When  I  haven't  got  the  things 
to  be  frivolous  with,  I  can  do  without." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  plucked  a  long  stalk 
of  feather-headed  grass. 

"Can  you?"  he  said  indolently.  "Are  you  sure 
you're  not  telling  a  little  story?" 

"No,  no,  quite  sure.  I  have  two  sides  to  my  char- 
acter, a  frivolous  one  and  a  serious  one.  You  ought 
to  know  that  by  now." 

"Which  have  you  shown  to  me  oftenest?"  He  waj 
peeling  the  stalk  of  its  shielding  blade  of  grass. 

"I  don't  know.  That's  for  you  to  say.  Perhaps 
it's  been  an  even  division." 

He  looked  up.  She  was  smiling  slightly,  her  dimple 
faintly  in  evidence. 

"And  I  suppose  the  dimple,"  he  said,  "belongs  to 
the  frivolous  side." 

"Yes.  Even  my  face  has  two  sides;  the  frivolous 
one  with  the  dimple  and  the  serious  one  without." 

"Let  me  see  them,"  he  said.  "Let  me  judge  which 
of  the  two  is  the  more  attractive." 

He  leaned  forward  and  with  the  tip  of  the  long 
spear  of  grass,  touched  her  lightly  on  the  cheek. 

"Turn,"  he  commanded,  "turn,  till  I  get  a  good 
profile  view." 

She  turned,  presenting  her  face  in  profile,  pure 
as  a  cameo  against  the  leafy  background. 

"That's  the  serious  side,"  she  said,  raising  her  chin 


THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  177 

slightly,  so  that  her  curls  slipped  back,  disclosing  her 
ear. 

"And  now  for  the  frivolous,"  he  answered.  "I 
don't  seem  to  know  the  serious  side  so  well." 

She  turned  her  head  in  the  other  direction,  her  eyes 
down-drooped.  He  drew  himself  nearer  to  her  over 
the  ground,  the  grass  spear  in  his  hand. 

"And  so  this  is  the  frivolous.  Shouldn't  the  dimple 
be  here?" 

He  touched  her  cheek  again  with  the  tip  of  the 
grass,  and  as  he  did  so  the  dimple  trembled  into 
being.  She  looked  at  him  slantwise,  laughing,  with 
something  breathless  in  the  laughter. 

As  she  met  his  glance  her  laughter  died  away.  His 
face  had  changed  to  something  unfamiliar  and  hard. 
He  was  pale,  his  eyes  fierce  and  unloving.  For  a 
moment  she  looked  at  him,  some  phrase  of  inquiry 
dying  on  her  lips,  then  she  made  an  attempt  to  rise, 
but  he  drew  close  to  her  and  caught  her  hands.  She 
turned  her  head  away,  suddenly  white  and  frightened. 

"June,"  he  whispered,  "do  you  know  how  much  I 
love  you?" 

It  was  a  whisper  unlike  anything  she  had  ever 
heard  before.  A  whisper  within  herself  responded  to 
it.  She  sat  still,  trembling  and  dizzy,  and  felt  his 
arms  close  about  her,  and  her  consciousness  grow 
blurred  as  his  lips  were  pressed  on  hers. 

The  instant  after  he  had  loosed  her  and  they  had 
shrunk  from  each  other  in  guilty  terror,  the  girl 
quivering  with  a  rush  of  half  comprehended  alarm, 
the  man  struggling  with  contending  passions.  His 


178  THE  PIONEER 

face  seemed  to  her  full  of  anger,  almost  of  hatred, 
as  he  cried  to  her, 

"Go  home.  I'm  sorry.  I  shouldn't  have  touched 
you.  We  can't  come  here  again  this  way.  I'm  not 
free  to  love  you.  Go  home." 

He  made  an  imperious  gesture  for  her  to  go, 
almost  as  though  driving  her  from  his  presence.  White 
as  death  and  dazed  by  the  terrifying  strangeness  of  it 
all,  she  scrambled  to  her  feet,  and  turning  from  him, 
set  out  at  a  run.  She  brushed  through  the  bushes,  her 
eyes  staring  before  her,  her  breast  straining  with  dry 
sobs.  In  one  hand  she  still  held  her  little  bunch  of 
wild  flowers,  and  with  the  other  she  made  futile 
snatches  at  her  skirt,  which  she  had  trodden  upon  and 
torn. 

Gaining  the  end  of  the  wood,  she  came  into  the 
open  garden,  glaring  with  sun,  deserted  and  brilliant. 
Back  of  it  stood  the  house,  shuttered  to  the  afternoon 
heat  and  drowsing  among  its  vines.  She  was  about 
to  continue  her  course  over  the  grass  to  the  open 
front  door,  when  a  footstep  behind  her,  rapid  as  her 
own,  fell  on  her  ear.  For  an  instant  of  alert,  lightly 
poised  terror,  she  paused  listening,  then  shot  forward 
across  the  grass  and  on  to  the  drive.  But  her  pur- 
suer was  fleeter  than  she.  Close  at  her  shoulder  she 
heard  him,  his  voice  full  of  commanding  urgency. 

"Stop,  I  must  speak  to  you." 

She  obeyed  as  she  must  always  obey  that  voice, 
and  wheeled  around  on  him,  pallid  and  panting. 

"June,  dearest,  forgive  me.  I  forgot  myself  and 
I've  frightened  you.  But  we  mustn't  meet — that 
way — any  more." 


THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  179 

She  looked  at  him  without  answering.  He  was  as 
pale  as  she.  The  lower  part  of  his  face  seemed  to 
tremble.  He  had  difficulty  in  controlling  it  and  speak- 
ing quietly. 

"It's  true  what  I  said,"  he  went  on.  "I  love  you. 
I've  done  so  for  months.  I  was  to  blame,  horribly 
to  blame.  You're  so  young — such  a  child.  I  was 
the  one  to  blame  for  it  all." 

"For  what?"  she  said.  "What's  there  to  blame  any- 
body for?  What  has  happened  all  of  a  sudden?" 

He  came  closer  to  her  and  looked  her  steadily  in 
the  eye. 

"I  am  not  free,"  he  said  in  the  lowest  audible  voice. 
"I  can't  marry  you.  I  am  not  free." 

She  repeated  with  trembling  lips, 

"Not  free!    Why  not?" 

"No.  If  I  were — oh,  June,  if  I  were!"  He 
turned  away  as  if  to  go,  then  turned  back,  and  said, 

"Oh,  June,  if  I  were,  we  would  be  so  happy!  If 
I  could  undo  the  past  and  take  you — !" 

His  voice  broke  and  he  looked  down,  biting  his 
underlip.  She  understood  everything  now,  and  for  the 
moment  speech  was  impossible.  There  was  a  slight 
pause,  and  then  he  said, 

"I  wouldn't  let  myself  see  the  way  it  was  going. 
I  lied  to  myself.  I  loved  you  better  every  day,  and 
I  persuaded  myself  I  didn't,  and  that  it  was  nothing 
but  a  friendship  to  both  of  us.  We  mustn't  meet  this 
way  any  more.  But  we  will  see  each  other  sometimes 
at  people's  houses  ?  We're  not  to  be  strangers." 

She  turned  dazedly  away  from  him  to  go  to  the 
house.  For  a  step  or  two  he  let  her  go.  Then  he 


180  THE  FIONEER 

followed  her,  caught  her  hand  with  its  bunch  of  limp 
flowers,  and  said  with  urgent  desperation: 

"I'll  see  you  sometimes.  I  can't  give  you  up 
entirely.  Perhaps — perhaps — later,  when  time  has 
passed,  we  can  be  friends.  June,  I  can't  give  it  all 
up  like  this." 

She  turned  on  him  a  face  whose  expression  pierced 
through  his  egotism. 

"Let  me  go  into  the  house,"  she  whispered.  "I 
can't  say  anything  now.  Let  me  go  into  the  house." 

He  dropped  her  hand,  and  turning,  walked  rapidly 
toward  the  driveway.  June  ran  to  the  house. 

It  was  wrapped  in  complete  silence.  Not  a  sound 
or  movement  came  from  it.  She  had  but  one  idea, 
to  mount  the  stairs  unseen,  gain  her  room  and  then 
lock  the  door.  Noiseless  and  fleet-footed  she  sped 
up  the  veranda  steps,  flew  through  the  open  door,  and 
then  cowered  against  the  wall.  Rosamund  was  on 
the  stairs  coming  down. 

"June,"  she  said  sharply,  "where  did  Jerry  Bar- 
clay come  from,  and  what  was  he  saying  to  you  out 
there?  I've  been  watching  you  from  the  window." 

Then  she  saw  her  sister's  face.  Her  own  changed 
in  a  flash.  Its  severity  vanished,  and  concern,  alarm, 
love,  took  its  place.  She  ran  downward  to  the  figure 
at  the  stair-foot,  pressed  against  the  wall. 

"What's  happened?    June,  what's  the  matter?" 

Her  startled  whisper  broke  the  sunny  stillness  with 
a  note  of  the  deadly  realism  of  life  amid  the  sweet 
unconcern  of  nature.  She  tried  to  clasp  June,  who 
made  an  effort  to  squeeze  past  her,  crushed  against 
the  wall,  her  head  down,  like  one  who  fears  recogni- 


THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  181 

tion.  When,  finding  it  impossible  to  escape,  she  sud- 
denly collapsed  at  Rosamund's  feet,  curled  up  like  a 
person  in  physical  anguish,  and  cried  with  smothered 
violence, 

"He's  not  free,  Rosamund.  It's  all  over;  every- 
thing's over.  It's  all  true,  and  we've  got  to  end  it 
all.  He's  not  free." 

Rosamund  realized  vaguely  what  had  happened. 
She  was  a  loving  woman,  but  she  was  a  practical  one, 
too.  There  were  people  in  the  house  who  must  not 
see  June  just  at  this  crisis.  She  was  much  the  larger 
and  stronger  of  the  two  girls,  and  she  bent  down  and 
attempted  to  raise  the  prostrate  figure. 

"June,  listen.  We  were  going  out  driving  at  five. 
Mary  Moore  may  be  down  at  any  moment.  Come 
quick;  she  mustn't  see  you.  She's  the  worst  gossip 
in  San  Francisco.  Come,  I'll  help  you." 

She  dragged  the  girl  up  with  an  arm  around  her, 
hurried  her  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  along  the  hall,  and 
into  her  room.  There  she  let  her  fall  into  an  arm- 
chair, and,  stepping  back,  locked  the  door. 

In  the  sweet-scented,  airy  room,  with  its  thin  mus- 
lin curtains  softening  the  hot  brilliancy  of  the  land- 
scape, June  sat  in  the  arm-chair,  silent  and  motion- 
less, her  face  pinched.  Rosamund,  who  had  never 
seen  her  sister  like  this,  did  not  know  what  to  do,  and 
in  despair,  resorted  to  the  remedies  she  had  been  ac- 
customed to  using  when  her  mother  had  been  ill.  She 
softly  rubbed  June's  temples  with  cologne  and  fanned 
her.  Finally  she  knelt  down  by  her  side  and  said 
tenderly, 

"What  is  it,  Junie,  dear  ?    Tell  it  to  me," 


i82  THE  PIONEER 

"I  have  told  it  to  you,"  said  June.  "He's  not  free ; 
that's  all.  You  all  said  it,  but  I  wouldn't  believe  it. 
Now  he's  said  it  and  I've  got  to  believe  it." 

She  spoke  in  a  high,  hard  voice,  and  Rosamund, 
kneeling  on  the  floor,  put  her  arms  round  her,  and 
said  with  ingenuous  consolation, 

"But  now  you  know  it,  the  worst's  over." 

"Everything's  over,"  said  June  dully. 

Her  eyes  fell  to  her  lap,  and  there,  in  one  hand, 
she  saw  the  wilted  remains  of  the  little  bunch  of  wild 
flowers.  A  sudden  realization  of  what  her  feelings 
had  been  when  she  picked  them,  how  joyous,  how 
shyly  happy,  how  full  of  an  elated  pleasure  of  life, 
and  what  they  were  now,  fell  upon  her  with  desolat- 
ing force.  She  gave  a  cry,  and,  turning  from  her 
sister,  pressed  her  face  against  the  back  of  the  chair 
and  burst  into  a  storm  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  VI 

READJUSTMENT 

June  and  July  passed,  and  the  life  in  the  De  Soto 
house  was  very  uneventful.  As  soon  as  the  group 
of  guests  left  June  requested  her  sister  to  ask  no 
more  visitors  for  a  time,  and  the  mid-summer  days 
filed  by,  unoccupied  in  their  opulent,  sun-bathed  splen- 
dor. 

The  blow  at  first  crushed  her.  Despite  the  warn- 
ings she  had  received,  it  had  come  upon  her  with 
the  stunning  force  of  the  entirely  unexpected.  The 
very  fact  that  Jerry  had  been  attacked  by  scandal 
had  lent  an  exalted  fervor  to  her  belief  in  him.  Even 
now,  had  there  been  a  possibility  of  her  continuing 
in  this  belief,  she  would  have  persisted.  Weak,  lov- 
ing women  have  an  extraordinary  talent  for  self-de- 
ception, and  June  combined  with  weakness  and  love 
an  irrepressible  optimism.  She  tried  to  plead  for  him 
with  herself,  argued  his  case  as  before  a  stern  judge, 
attempted  in  her  ignorance  to  find  extenuating  cir- 
cumstances for  him,  and  then  came  face  to  face  with 
the  damning,  incontrovertible  fact  that  he  himself  had 
admitted. 

It  was  a  blasting  experience.  Had  she  known  him 
less  well,  had  their  acquaintance  been  of  shorter  dura- 
183 


184  THE  PIONEER 

tion,  the  blow  would  probably  have  killed  her  love. 
But  the  period  of  acquaintance  had  been  long, 
the  growth  of  affection  gradual.  By  the  time  the 
truth  was  forced  upon  her,  her  passion  had  struck 
its  roots  deep  into  her  heart,  and  she  was  not  strong 
enough  to  tear  it  out. 

In  the  long  summer  days,  wandering  about  the 
deserted,  glowing  gardens,  she  began  the  work  of 
reconstructing  her  ideal.  She  told  herself  that  she 
would  always  love  him,  but  now  it  was  with  no  con- 
fidence, no  proud  joy  in  a  noble  and  uplifting  thing. 
With  agonizing  throes  of  rebirth,  her  feeling  for 
him  passed  from  the  soft,  self-surrendering  worship 
of  a  girl  to  the  protective  and  forgiving  passion  of 
a  woman.  As  it  changed  she  changed  with  it.  The 
suggestion  of  the  child  that  had  lingered  in  her  van- 
ished. The  freshness  of  her  youth  went  for  ever. 
The  evanescent  beauty  that  happiness  had  given  her, 
which  on  the  day  of  Barclay's  declaration  had  reached 
its  climax,  shriveled  like  a  flower  in  the  heat  of  a 
fire.  She  looked  pale,  pinched,  and  thin.  Eying  her 
image  in  the  glass,  she  marveled  that  any  man  could 
find  her  attractive. 

In  the  first  period  of  her  wretchedness  *she  was 
numbed.  Then,  the  house  swept  of  its  guests  and 
she  and  Rosamund  once  more  alone,  her  silence  broke 
and  she  poured  out  her  sorrows  to  her  sister.  Rosa- 
mund heard  the  story  from  the  first  day  at  Foleys 
to  its  fateful  termination  in  the  Senora  Kelley's  wood- 
land bower. 

She  listened  with  unfailing  sympathy,  interrupted 
by  moments  of  intense  surprise.  The  revelations  of 


READJUSTMENT  185 

the  constant  meetings  with  Barclay,  which  had  been 
so  skilfully  kept  secret,  amazed  and  disconcerted  her. 
She  tried  to  conceal  her  astonishment,  but  now  and 
then  it  broke  out  in  startled  queries.  It  was  so  hard 
to  connect  the  unconscious  and  apparently  candid 
June  of  the  winter  with  this  disclosure  of  a  June  who 
had  been  so  far  from  candid.  It  was  nearly  impos- 
sible to  include  them  in  the  same  perspective.  The 
culprit,  engrossed  in  the  recital  of  her  griefs,  was 
oblivious  of  her  sister's  growing  state  of  shocked 
amaze,  which  sometimes  took  the  form  of  silence,  and 
occasionally  expressed  itself  in  gently  probing  ques- 
tions. 

"But,  June,"  she  could  not  help  saying  in  protest, 
"didn't  you  realize  something  wasn't  all  right  when 
you  saw  he'd  rather  meet  you  outside  than  see  you 
at  home?" 

June  turned  on  her  an  eye  of  cold  disapproval. 

"No.  And  I  don't  see  now  that  that's  got  anything 
to  do  with  it." 

Rosamund  subsided  meekly,  unable  to  follow  the 
intricacies  of  her  sister's  mental  processes. 

She  did  not  argue  with  June — it  was  hopeless  in 
the  sufferer's  present  state  of  mind — and  she  made 
few  comments  on  Barclay's  behavior.  But  she  had 
her  opinion  of  him,  and  it  was  that  he  was  one  of 
the  darkest  of  villains.  As  to  her  opinion  of  June's 
part  in  the  story,  she  was  a  loyal  soul  and  had  none. 
All  she  felt  was  a  flood  of  sympathy  for  the  shocked 
and  wounded  girl,  and  a  worried  sense  of  respon- 
sibility in  a  position  with  which  she  felt  herself  un- 
able to  cope.  It  was  with  great  relief  that,  toward 


186  THE  PIONEER 

the  end  of  July,  she  received  a  letter  from  the  Colonel, 
who  had  been  six  weeks  in  Virginia  City,  telling  her 
he  would  be  with  them  on  the  following  Sunday. 

She  drove  down  to  the  train  to  meet  him  with  the 
intention  of  preparing  him  for  the  change  in  his 
favorite.  She  had  written  to  him  that  June  was  not 
well.  Driving  back  from  the  station  she  had  ample 
time  to  expatiate  on  this  theme  and  warn  him  not  to 
exclaim  unduly  on  her  changed  appearance.  The 
Colonel  began  to  be  apprehensive  and  ask  penetrative 
questions,  to  which  she  had  no  answer.  He  leaped 
out  of  the  carriage  at  the  veranda  steps  and  ran  up 
to  the  top,  where  June  stood. 

The  change  in  her,  flushed  with  welcome,  was  not 
strikingly  apparent  at  the  first  glance.  It  was  later 
that  he  began  to  realize  it,  to  be  startled  and  then 
alarmed.  She  sat  quiet  through  dinner,  nibbling  mus- 
ingly at  her  food,  once  or  twice  not  answering  him. 
The  empty  silence  of  the  house  struck  chill  on  him, 
and  when  he  had  commented  on  the  absence  of 
visitors,  she  had  said  with  sudden  gusty  irritation, 

"There's  been  nobody  here  for  over  a  month.  I 
don't  want  anybody  to  come.  I'll  go  away  if  any- 
body's asked.  I  like  being  alone  this  way." 

He  looked  at  Rosamund  with  an  almost  terrified 
inquiry.  She  surreptitiously  raised  her  brows  and 
gave  her  head  a  warning  shake. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  before  he  had  a  chance  to 
speak  to  Rosamund  alone.  Then,  June  having  gone 
to  her  room,  and  he  and  Rosamund  being  left  alone 
in  the  sitting-room,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  young 
girl's  shoulder,  and  said  in  a  voice  of  command, 


READJUSTMENT  187 

"Now,  Rosamund,  I've  got  to  hear  all  about  this. 
What  the  devil's  been  going  on  down  here?" 

She  told  him  the  whole  story,  greatly  relieved  to 
have  a  listener  who  could  advise  her. 

The  Colonel  was  staggered  by  it.  He  said  little, 
but  Rosamund  was  not  half-way  through  when  he 
began  pacing  up  and  down,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
every  now  and  then  a  low  ejaculation  breaking  from 
him.  He,  too,  was  astounded  by  the  account  of  June's 
underhand  behavior.  He  had  thought  the  two  girls 
as  simple  as  children.  That  his  own  particular  dar- 
ling could  have  consented  to,  and  then  so  dexterously 
carried  out,  a  plan  of  procedure  so  far  from  what  he 
had  imagined  a  young  girl  would  do,  was  painful 
and  shocking  to  him.  But  as  June's  love  could  not 
be  killed  by  one  sort  of  disagreeable  revelation,  so 
his  could  suffer  no  abatement  from  another  kind. 
Manlike,  he  immediately  began  to  make  excuses  for 
her. 

"She  was  too  young  to  be  allowed  to  go  round  that 
way  alone,"  he  burst  out  angrily.  "There  was  nobody 
to  take  care  of  her.  What  good  are  two  old  Silurians 
like  me  and  your  father  to  look  after  girls?  I  told 
him  six  months  ago  he  ought  to  get  some  kind  of 
an  old  woman  in  the  house  who'd  knit  in  corners  and 
hang  round  after  you." 

Rosamund  continued  her  story  and  he  went  on 
with  his  walk.  Now  and  then,  as  she  alluded  to  Bar- 
clay's part  in  the  affair,  suppressed  phrases  that  were 
of  a  profane  character  broke  from  him.  When  she 
had  concluded  he  stood  for  a  moment  by  the  window 
looking  out* 


i88  THE  PIONEER 

"Well,  the  mischief's  been  done.  He's  made  the 
poor  little  soul  just  about  as  miserable  as  she  can 
be.  I'd  like  to  blow  the  top  of  his  head  off  with  one 
of  my  derringers,  but  as  I  can't  have  that  satisfac- 
tion there's  no  good  thinking  of  it.  All  we  can  do  is 
to  try  and  brace  her  up  some  way  or  other." 

Rosamund  made  no  answer  and  after  a  moment  of 
silence,  he  continued, 

"And  I  suppose  it  lets  poor  Rion  out?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  breathed  Rosamund  with  a  melancholy 
sigh. 

The  Colonel  walked  to  the  other  window  muttering 
in  his  wrath. 

"He  was  coming  down  here,  Rosie,  to  ask  her. 
They've  made  a  pile  of  money  up  there,  in  this  Crown 
Point  business,  and  they're  buying  up  all  the  claims 
that  might  have  clouded  the  title  of  the  Cresta  Plata. 
They  believe  there's  a  bonanza  there,  and  the  Gracey 
boys  don't  often  make  mistakes.  They'll  be  million- 
aires before  they're  done.  But  that  doesn't  count. 
What  does  is  that  Rion  Gracey 's  the  finest  man  in 
California,  bar  none.  The  woman  that  he  married 
would  be  loved  and  taken  care  of,  the  way — the  way  a 
woman  ought  to  be.  Good  Lord,  what  fools  we  are 
and  how  we  tear  our  lives  to  pieces  for  nothing!" 

"Don't  blame  her,  Uncle  Jim.  She's  just  got  so 
fond  of  that  man  she  hasn't  any  sense  left." 

"Blame  her!  Have  I  ever  blamed  her?  Why, 
Rosie,  I'd  die  for  her.  I'll  have  to  go  up  to  Virginia 
and  put  Rion  off.  What  can  I  say  to  him?" 

"Tell  him  she  doesn't  care  for  him."  said  the  truth- 
ful Rosamund. 


READJUSTMENT  189 

The  Colonel  paused  by  the  table,  looking  down  and 
jingling  the  loose  silver  in  his  pockets. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  tell  him  that. 
That  would  be  harder  on  Rion  than  on  most  men. 
Women,  you  know,  change.  June's  very  young.  She's 
still  a  child  in  many  things." 

"She  isn't  the  same  sort  of  child  she  was  two 
months  ago,"  said  Rosamund  sadly. 

"No,  but  she's  young  in  years — only  twenty-one. 
Dear  girl,  that's  a  baby.  Your  mother  was  older  than 
that  when  I  knew  her,  and — and — she  changed." 

"How  changed?"  Rosamund  asked  with  some 
curiosity. 

"Her  heart  changed.  She — other  men  cared  for 
her  before  your  father  came  along.  She  once  cared 
for  one  of  them." 

The  Colonel  paused  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Mother  was  engaged  to  some  one  else  before 
father.  She  told  me  so  once,  but  she  didn't  say  who." 

"Well,  there  was  no  doubt  of  her  second  love  being 
deep.  In  fact,  it  was  the  deeper  of  the  two." 

"I  wish  June  would  care  for  Rion  Gracey.  But 
if  you'd  hear  her  talk!" — with  hopeless  recollection 
of  June's  sentimental  transports.  "It  sounds  as  if  she 
didn't  know  there  was  a  man  in  the  world  but  that 
miserable  Barclay.  She's  just  bewitched.  What's 
the  matter  with  women  that  they're  always  falling  in 
love  with  the  wrong  man?" 

There  was  another  pause. 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  said  the  Colonel  at  length,  "to 
keep  Rion  from  coming  down  and  trying  his  luck. 
He  mustn't  see  her  now.  She'd  refuse  him  in  such 


190  THE  PIONEER 

a  way  that  he'd  never  dare  to  come  near  her  again. 
And  you,  Rosie,  try  and  cheer  her  up  and  keep  her 
from  thinking  of  Barclay." 

On  Monday  morning  the  Colonel  left  for  San 
Francisco,  and  a  few  days  later  was  again  en  route 
for  Virginia  City. 

The  rest  of  the  summer  slowly  passed,  idle  and 
eventless.  June  brightened  a  little  with  the  passage 
of  the  weeks,  but  was  far  from  her  old  self.  Now  and 
then  she  saw  Barclay  at  the  station,  in  the  house  of 
friends,  or  met  him  in  the  village.  At  first  he  merely 
bowed  and  passed  on.  But  before  the  summer  was 
over  he  had  spoken  to  her;  in  the  beginning  with  the 
short  and  colorless  politeness  of  early  acquaintance- 
ship, but  later  with  something  of  his  natural  bon- 
homie. 

Once  at  an  afternoon  garden  fete  she  suddenly 
came  out  on  a  balcony  and  found  him  there  alone. 
For  a  moment  they  stood  dumb,  eye  full  on  eye,  then 
began  speaking  of  indifferent  things,  their  hearts  beat- 
ing hard,  their  faces  pale.  It  was  the  first  conversa- 
tion of  any  length  they  had  had  since  the  meeting  in 
the  wood.  They  parted,  feeling  for  the  moment 
poignantly  disturbed  and  yet  eased  of  the  ache  of 
separation.  From  that  on  they  spoke  at  greater 
length,  talking  with  an  assumption  of  naturalness, 
till  finally  their  fragmentary  intercourse  assumed  a 
tone  of  simple  friendliness,  from  which  all  sentiment 
was  banished.  This  surface  calm  was  all  that  each 
saw  of  the  other's  heart,  but  each  knew  what  the  calm 
concealed. 

In  October  the  Aliens  returned  to  town.    The  Col- 


READJUSTMENT  191 

onel  had  managed  to  keep  Rion  Gracey  from  going  to 
San  Francisco  "to  try  his  luck"  until  this  late  date. 
It  would  have  been  impossible  had  not  Fate  been  with 
him.  In  the  growing  excitement  of  the  reawakened 
mining  town  Rion  was  continuously  occupied,  and 
he  was  a  man  to  whom  work  was  a  paramount  duty. 
But  in  October  he  slipped  his  leash  for  a  week  and 
ran  down  to  San  Francisco.  In  four  days  he  re- 
turned, as  quiet  as  ever,  and  inclined  to  be  harder 
with  his  men.  The  Colonel  knew  what  had  happened, 
and  Black  Dan  guessed.  Outside  these  two,  no  one 
understood  why  Rion  Gracey  had  become  a  more 
silent  and  less  lenient  man  after  a  four  days'  visit 
to  the  coast 


CHAPTER  VII 

BUSINESS   AND   SENTIMENT 

The  winter  of  '7i-'72  was  a  feverish  one  for  San 
Francisco.  The  rising  excitement  in  Virginia  ran  like 
a  tidal  wave  over  the  mountains  to  the  city  by  the 
sea  and  there  broke  in  a  seething  whirl.  There  was 
no  stock  market  in  the  Nevada  camp.  Pine  Street 
was  the  scene  of  the  operations  of  capitalist  and 
speculator — the  arena  where  bull  and  bear  met. 

In  Virginia  men  fought  against  the  forces  of  na- 
ture. They  matched  their  strength  with  the  elements 
of  the  primeval  world.  Water  and  fire  were  their 
enemies.  Their  task  was  the  tearing  out  from  the 
rock-ribbed  flanks  of  the  mountains  the  treasure  that 
nature  had  buried  with  jealous  care.  They  performed 
prodigies  of  energy,  conquered  the  unconquerable, 
rose  to  the  height  of  their  mighty  antagonist,  giant 
against  giant. 

In  San  Francisco  men  fought  with  one  another. 
The  treasure  once  in  their  hands,  the  tattle  lost  its 
dignity  and  became  the  ignominious  scramble  of  the 
swindler  and  the  swindled.  The  gold  and  silver — 
thrown  among  the  crowd — ran  this  way  and  that,  like 
spilled  quicksilver.  Most  of  it  ran  the  way  its  manipu- 
lators directed,  into  pockets  that  were  already  full, 
192 


BUSINESS  AND  SENTIMENT  193 

carrying  with  it  the  accumulation  of  gold  from  other 
pockets  less  full,  whose  owners  were  less  cunning. 

Through  the  winter  Crown  Point  and  Belcher — 
the  neighboring  mine  into  which  the  ore  body  ex- 
tended— continued  to  rise.  Confidence  had  been  re- 
stored; everybody  was  investing.  Clerks  and  servant 
girls  drew  their  savings  out  of  banks  and  stocking 
feet  and  bought  shares.  In  April  the  stock  had 
reached  its  highest  point,  seven  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  dollars.  In  May,  one  month  later,  it  dropped  to 
one  hundred  and  seventy-five.  It  was  the  greatest 
and  most  rapid  decline  the  San  Francisco  stock  mar- 
ket had  ever  known. 

The  city  was  for  the  moment  stunned  by  it.  The 
confidence  in  Virginia — for  three  years  regarded  as 
"petered" — had  returned  in  full  force.  The  sudden 
drop  knocked  the  breath  from  the  lungs  of  those  who 
had  been  vociferating  the  recrudescence  of  the  Corn- 
stock*  A  quantity  of  fortunes,  great  and  small,  were 
swept  away  in  the  collapse.  The  brokers'  cries  for 
"mud"  drew  the  last  nickels  from  the  clerks  and 
the  servant  girls,  the  last  dollars  from  their  employers. 
When  the  wave  receded  the  shore  was  strewn  with 
wrecks.  For  the  second  time  this  wave  had  slowly 
risen  to  level-brimming  flood,  broken,  swept  back 
and  left  such  a  drift  of  human  wreckage. 

Throughout  the  city  there  was  wailing.  Nearly 
everybody  had  suffered.  The  last  remnant  of  the 
fortune  left  to  Jerry  Barclay  by  his  father  was  gone. 
His  mother  too  had  lost,  fortunately  not  heavily.  But 
she  bemoaned  her  few  thousands  with  as  much  zeal 


194  THE  PIONEER 

as  her  cook  did  the  five  hundred,  which  constituted 
the  savings  of  years. 

Among  the  heaviest  losers  was  Beauregard  Allen. 
Had  not  the  Barranca  been  behind  him  he  would 
have  been  a  ruined  man.  As  it  was,  the  second  for- 
tune he  saw  himself  possessed  of  was  swept  away  in 
a  few  disastrous  days.  The  Barranca,  while  its  yield 
had  not  of  late  been  so  large  or  so  rich  as  during  its 
first  year,  still  gave  him  what  he  once  would  have 
considered  a  princely  income.  But  he  lived  up  to  and 
beyond  it.  His  expenditures  during  the  last  year  had 
been  exceedingly  heavy.  He  had  private  extrava- 
gances of  his  own,  besides  the  lavish  manner  of  living 
in  which  he  encouraged  his  daughters.  He  had  leased 
the  De  Soto  house  for  three  years  at  a  fancy  rent.  The 
Colonel's  mortgage  on  the  Folsom  Street  house  would 
mature  in  another  year.  The  interest  which  fell  due 
in  January  he  had  neglected  to  pay.  He  had  had 
the  money  and  then  a  jeweler  had  threatened  to  bring 
suit  for  an  unpaid-for  diamond  bracelet,  and  the 
money  had  gone  there,  quickly,  to  keep  the  jeweler 
quiet. 

Three  years  ago  at  Foleys  had  any  one  told  him 
that  he  would  own  a  mine  like  the  Barranca  and 
enjoy  an  income  from  it  such  as  still  was  his,  he 
would  have  wondered  how  he  could  best  expend  such 
wealth.  Since  then  the  beggar  on  horseback  had 
ridden  fast  and  far.  Now,  in  morose  absorption,  he 
reviewed  his  expenses  and  his  debts.  His  petty  vanity 
forbade  him  to  economize  in  his  manner  of  living. 
He  had  raised  his  head  before  men  and  he  would 
not  lower  it  again.  Some  financiering  would  be  nee- 


BUSINESS  AND  SENTIMENT          195 

essary  to  pay  up  his  brokers,  maintain  the  two  fine 
establishments  in  which  his  daughters  ruled,  and  have 
the  necessary  cash  for  the  diamond  bracelets  and 
suppers  after  the  theater  that  absorbed  so  many  un- 
counted hundreds.  There  was  solace  in  the  thought 
that  Parrish  held  the  mortgage  on  the  Folsom  Street 
house.  However  restive  other  creditors  might  grow 
Parrish  could  be  managed. 

The  Colonel  in  these  troublous  days  was  also 
glumly  studying  his  accounts.  Crown  Point,  which 
was  to  repair  the  recent  decline  in  certain  of  his 
investments,  had  swept  away  in  its  fall  a  portion 
of  that  comfortable  fortune  in  which  its  owner  had 
felt  so  secure.  He  had  had  several  losses  of  late. 
From  the  day  of  his  relinquishment  of  the  Parrish 
Tract  bad  luck  seemed  to  follow  him.  Owing  to 
an  uncontrollable  influx  of  water  the  mine  in 
Shasta  had  been  shut  down  indefinitely.  The  South 
Park  houses  were  declining  in  value,  the  city  was 
growing  out  toward  the  property  he  had  sold  on 
upper  Market  Street,  which  a  year  ago  had  been  a 
bare  stretch  of  sand.  The  Colonel  looked  grave  as  he 
bent  over  his  books ;  his  riches  were  something  more 
than  a  matter  of  mere  personal  comfort  and  con- 
venience. 

On  a  blank  sheet  of  paper  he  jotted  down  what 
his  income  would  be  after  all  these  loppings  off.  Then 
over  against  the  last  line  of  figures  jotted  down  a 
second  line  of  his  expenditures.  For  some  time  he 
pondered  frowningly  over  these  two  columns.  They 
presented  a  disconcerting  problem. 

For  the  past  six  or  seven  years  he  had  spent  some 


196  THE  PIONEER 

five  thousand  per  annum  on  himself,  the  rest  on  cer- 
tain charities  and  what  he  lumped  together  under 
the  convenient  head  of  "Sundries."  It  was  a  word 
which  covered  among  other  things  numerous  presents 
and  treats  for  June  and  Rosamund.  "Sundries" 
had  consumed  a  great  deal  of  ready  money,  nearly 
as  much  as  Allen's  diamond  bracelets  and  theater  sup- 
pers, and  the  Colonel  sighed  as  he  realized  they  must 
suffer  curtailment.  The  private  charities  were  rep- 
resented by  a  few  written  words  with  an  affixed  line 
of  figures:  "Carter's  girl  at  Convent;"  "Joe's  boy," 
"G.  T.'s  widow."  When  the  figures  were  added  up 
they  made  a  formidable  sum. 

The  Colonel  looked  at  it  for  another  period  of 
frowning  cogitation.  Then  on  the  edge  of  the  paper 
he  put  down  the  items  of  his  own  private  account. 
There  was  only  one  which  was  large — the  rent  of 
the  sunny  suite  on  the  Kearney  Street  corner. 
Through  that  item  he  drew  his  pen. 

The  next  time  he  dined  with  the  Aliens  he  told 
them  that  he  was  going  to  move.  He  had  found  his 
old  rooms  too  large  and  he  had  decided  to  take  a 
smaller  suite  in  the  Traveler's  Hotel.  The  girls 
stared  in  blank  surprise.  Allen  looked  at  him  with 
quick,  sidelong  curiosity.  He  wondered  at  the  move. 
He  knew  that  Parrish  had  been  hard  hit,  but  he  still 
must  have  enough  left  to  live  on  comfortably  in  the 
style  he  had  maintained  since  his  return  from  the  war. 
The  Traveler's  Hotel  was  a  come-down — a  place  on 
the  built-out  land  below  Montgomery  Street,  respect- 
able enough,  but  far  different  from  the  luxurious 
rooms  on  the  Kearnev  Street  corner. 


BUSINESS  AND  SENTIMENT  197 

The  girls  were  amazed,  distressed,  had  endless 
questions  as  to  why  Uncle  Jim  should  do  such  a 
strange  thing.  He  laughed  and  parried  their  queries. 
Had  they  forgotten  that  he  was  a  pioneer,  who  had 
slept  under  the  stars  on  the  American  River  in  forty- 
nine?  In  those  days  the  Traveler's  Hotel  would  have 
been  regarded  as  the  acme  of  luxury. 

"And  why,"  he  said,  "should  the  old  man  to-day 
turn  up  his  nose  at  what  would  have  been  magnifi- 
cence to  the  young  man  in  forty-nine?" 

During  this  winter  of  storm  and  stress  June  stood 
on  the  edge  of  the  excitement  looking  on.  The  self- 
ishness of  a  purely  individual  sorrow  held  her  back 
from  that  vivid  interest  and  participation  that  would 
once  have  been  hers.  She  was  tender  and  loving  to 
the  Colonel,  and  she  bore  patiently  with  the  moody 
irritation  that  often  marked  her  father's  manner,  but 
for  the  most  part  she  gave  to  the  matters  that  once 
would  have  been  of  paramount  interest,  only  a  shadow 
of  her  old  blithe  attention. 

Yet  she  was  not  entirely  unhappy.  She  had  ac- 
cepted the  situation,  and,  knowing  the  worst,  tried 
to  readjust  her  life  to  an  altered  point  of  view.  Her 
comfort  lay  in  the  thought  that  Jerry  loved  her.  The 
enchantment  of  the  days  when  she  had  dreamed  a 
maiden's  dreams  of  a  life  with  the  one  chosen  man, 
was  for  ever  gone.  She  marveled  now  at  the  rain- 
bow radiance  of  that  wonderful  time  when  mere  liv- 
ing had  been  so  joyous,  and  happiness  so  easy  and 
natural. 

But  Jerry  loved  her.  In  the  rending  of  the  fabric 
of  her  dreams,  the  shattering  of  her  ideals,  that  re- 


198  THE  PIONEER 

mained.  She  hugged  it  to  her  heart  and  it  filled  the 
empty  present.  Of  the  future  she  did  not  think, 
making  no  attempt  to  penetrate  its  veil.  Only  her 
youth  whispered  hope  to  her,  and  her  natural  buoy- 
ancy of  temperament  repeated  the  whisper. 

Of  Jerry's  feelings  toward  her  she  knew,  without 
being  told,  but  one  evening,  late  in  the  winter,  he 
again  spoke  of  them.  It  was  at  a  party  at  Mrs.  Dav- 
enport's. For  the  first  time  during  the  season  they 
had  danced  together.  As  a  rule  their  intercourse 
was  limited  to  the  few  words  of  casual  acquaintance- 
ship, greetings  on  the  stairway,  conventional  common- 
places at  suppers  or  over  dinner-tables.  Under  this 
veil  of  indifference  each  was  acutely  conscious  of 
the  other's  presence,  thrilled  to  the  other's  voice, 
heard  unexpectedly  in  a  lull  of  conversation  or  the 
passing  of  couples  in  a  crowded  doorway. 

At  Mrs.  Davenport's  party  Jerry  had  drunk  freely 
of  the  champagne  and  the  restraint  he  kept  on  himself 
was  loosened.  Moreover,  Lupe  was  not  present,  and 
he  felt  reckless  and  daring.  After  a  few  turns  among 
the  circling  couples  they  dropped  out  of  the  dance, 
and  he  drew  June  from  the  large  room  into  a  small 
conservatory.  Here  in  the  quiet  coolness,  amid  the 
greenery  of  leaves  and  the  drip  of  falling  water,  he 
took  her  two  hands  in  his,  and  in  the  sentimental 
phrases  of  which  he  had  such  a  mastery,  told  her  of 
his  love. 

She  listened  with  down-drooped  eyes,  pale  as  the 
petals  of  the  lilies  round  the  fountain,  the  lace  on 
her  bosom  vijb/^ljjg  with  the  beating  of  her  heart. 


BUSINESS  AND  SENTIMENT          199 

"Say  you  love  me,"  he  had  urged,  pressing  the 
hands  he  held,  "I  want  to  hear  you  say  it." 

"You  know  I  do,"  she  whispered,  "I  don't  need  to 
say  it." 

"But  I  want  to  hear  you  say  those  very  words." 

She  said  them,  her  voice  just  audible  above  the  clear 
trickling  of  the  falling  water. 

"And  you'll  go  on  loving  me,  even  though  we  don't 
see  each  other  except  in  these  crowded  places,  and 
I  hardly  dare  to  speak  to  you,  or  touch  your  hand?" 

"I  always  will.  Separation,  or  distance,  or  time 
will  make  no  difference.  It's — it's — for  always  with 
me." 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  they  rested  on  his  in  a 
deep,  exalted  look.  She  was  plighting  her  troth  for 
life.  He.  too,  was  pale  and  moved,  and  the  hands 
clasped  round  hers  trembled.  He  cared  for  her  with 
all  the  force  that  was  in  him.  He  was  neither  exag- 
gerated nor  untruthful  in  what  he  said.  When  he 
told  a  woman  he  loved  her  he  meant  it.  There  would 
have  been  no  reason  or  pleasure  to  Jerry  in  making 
love  unless  the  feeling  he  expressed  was  genuine. 
Now  his  voice  was  hoarse,  his  face  tense  with  emo- 
tion, as  he  said : 

"It's  for  life  with  me,  too.  There's  no  woman  in 
the  world  for  me  but  you,  June.  Whatever  I've 
done  in  the  past,  in  the  future  I'm  yours,  for  ever, 
while  I'm  here  to  be  anybody's.  Will  you  be  true?" 

"Till  I  die,"  she  whispered. 

Their  trembling  hands  remained  locked  together, 
and  eye  held  eye  in  a  trance-like  steadiness  that 


200  THE  PIONEER 

seemed  to  search  the  soul.    To  both,  the  moment  had 
the  sacredness  of  a  betrothal. 

"Some  day  perhaps  we  can  be  happy/'  he  mur- 
mured, not  knowing  what  he  meant,  but  anxious  to 
alleviate  the  very  genuine  suffering  he  experienced. 
She  framed  some  low  words  over  which  her  lips 
quivered,  and  in  his  pain  he  insisted : 

"But  you  will  wait  for  me,  no  matter  what  time 
passes?  You  won't  grow  tired  of  waiting,  or  cease 
to  care?  You'll  always  feel  that  you're  mine?" 

"I'm  yours  for  ever,"  she  answered. 

These  were  the  only  words  of  love  that  passed  be- 
tween them,  but  at  the  time  they  were  uttered  they 
were  to  both  as  the  words  of  a  solemn  pact.  For  the 
rest  of  the  winter  Jerry  avoided  her.  His  passion  was 
at  its  height.  Between  it  and  his  fear  of  Lupe  he 
was  more  wretched  and  unhappy  than  he  had  ever 
been  in  his  life. 

During  the  spring,  with  its  tumult  of  excitement 
and  final  catastrophe,  and  the  long  summer  of  dreary 
recuperation,  June  walked  apart,  upheld  by  the  mem- 
ory of  the  vows  she  had  plighted.  Money  was  made 
and  lost,  the  little  world  about  her  seethed  in  angry; 
discouragement  while  she  looked  on  absently,  ab- 
sorbed in  her  dream.  What  delighted  or  vexed  peo- 
ple was  of  insignificant  moment  to  her.  In  the  midst 
of  surroundings  to  which  she  had  once  given  a  spark- 
ling and  intimate  attention  she  was  now  a  cool,  indif- 
ferent spectator.  Her  interest  in  life  was  concentrated 
in  the  thought  that  Jerry  had  pledged  himself  to  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NEW   PLANETS 

The  year  after  the  Crown  Point  collapse  was  a  sad 
and  chastened  one.  Money  was  tight  on  all  sides. 
Large  houses  were  closed,  servants  discharged,  dress- 
makers' bills  cut  down.  Many  families  hitherto 
prominent  dropped  out  of  sight,  preferring  to  hide 
their  poverty  in  remote  corners  of  the  city,  whence, 
in  some  cases,  they  never  again  emerged.  The  win- 
ter, shorn  of  its  accustomed  gaieties,  was  dull  and 
quiet. 

With  the  spring  there  came  a  revival  of  life  and 
energy.  The  volatile  spirit  of  the  Californians  began 
to  rise.  One  of  the  chief  causes  of  this  was  a  new 
series  of  disturbing  rumors  from  Virginia  City.  In 
February  a  strike  was  reported  in  the  recently  consol- 
idated group  of  claims  known  as  the  California  and 
Consolidated  Virginia.  A  vein  of  ore  seven  feet  wide 
and  assaying  sixty  dollars  to  the  ton  had  been  un- 
covered. Talk  of  the  Nevada  camp  was  in  the  air. 
The  San  Franciscans  were  incredulous,  as  fearful  of 
mining  stock  as  the  singed  cat  of  the  fire,  but  they 
listened  and  watched,  feeling  the  first  faint  unrest  of 
hope  and  temptation. 

Socially  too,  the  city  showed  signs  of  returning 
201 


202  THE  PIONEER 

cheerfulness.  This  was  due  not  only  to  the  natural 
rebound  after  a  period  of  depression,  but  to  two  new 
arrivals  of  the  sort  which  those  small  segregated 
groups  known  as  "society"  delight  to  welcome  and 
entertain. 

The  first  of  these  was  Mercedes  Gracey.  Glamour 
of  many  sorts  clung  about  the  name  of  this  favorite 
of  fortune.  To  her  natural  attractions  were  added 
those  supposed  to  be  acquired  by  a  sojourn  in  older 
and  more  sophisticated  localities.  Mercedes  had 
passed  from  her  New  York  boarding-school  to  the 
finishing  influences  of  a  year  "abroad."  She  had 
traveled  in  Europe  with  a  chaperone  and  taken  on 
the  polish  of  accomplishment  under  the  guidance  of 
experienced  teachers.  Such  news  of  her  as  had 
drifted  back  to  San  Francisco  was  eagerly  seized 
upon  by  the  less  fortunate  home  dwellers.  From  time 
to  time  the  newspapers  printed  items  about  Miss 
Gracey's  triumphant  career.  Before  her  arrival  San 
Francisco  had  already  developed  a  possessive  pride  in 
her  as  a  native  daughter  who  would  add  to  the  glory 
of  the  Golden  State. 

Mercedes  would  not,  probably,  have  been  the  object 
of  such  interest  had  not  the  fortunes  of  her  father 
and  uncle  been  for  the  past  three  years  steadily  as- 
cending. The  Gracey  boys  had  of  late  risen  from 
the  position  of  a  pair  of  well-known  and  capable 
mining  men  to  that  of  two  of  the  most  prominent  fig- 
ures in  the  state.  Their  means  were  reported  large. 
They  had  been  among  the  few  who  had  got  out  of 
the  Crown  Point  excitement  at  the  right  moment,  sell- 
ing their  stock  at  the  top  price.  They  were  now  de- 


NEW  PLANETS  203 

veloping  their  Cresta  Plata  property.  Should  this  pan 
out  as  they  expected  there  was  no  knowing  where  the 
Gracey  boys'  successes  would  end.  Mercedes  was 
the  only  woman  relative  they  possessed.  It  was  no 
wonder  that  she  was  regarded  with  an  almost  rever- 
ential interest,  and  her  return  evoked  as  much  curios- 
ity as  though  it  were  that  of  an  errant  princess. 

Black  Dan,  who  had  gone  to  New  York  to  meet 
her,  brought  her  back  in  triumph.  His  idolatrous 
love  had  known  no  abatement  in  the  two  years'  sepa- 
ration. To  have  her  finally  restored  to  him,  in  an 
even  completer  state  of  perfection,  was  a  bewildering 
happiness  to  him.  His  primitive  nature  strove  to 
show  its  gratitude  and  tenderness  in  extravagant 
ways.  He  showered  presents  on  her,  ordered  the 
finest  suite  in  the  newly-completed  Lick  House  to  be 
prepared  for  her,  offered  to  rent  any  .country  place 
she  might  choose.  That  she  should  accompany  him 
to  the  rough  life  of  Virginia,  where  he  spent  most  of 
his  time,  he  never  expected.  It  would  be  enough  for 
him  to  see  her  on  his  frequent  visits  to  the  coast. 

The  other  notable  visitor  who  arrived  in  the  city 
almost  simultaneously  was  a  young  Englishman, 
Lionel  Harrower.  He,  too,  took  up  his  residence  in 
the  Lick  House,  and  it  was  but  natural  that  some 
of  the  interest  evoked  by  the  appearance  of  Black 
Dan's  daughter  should  be  deflected  toward  him. 

Young  Harrower  was  a  nephew  of  that  English- 
man who  fifteen  years  before  had  married  Mrs.  New- 
bury's  sister,  Carmen  Romero.  He  was  finishing  his 
education  by  a  trip  around  the  world,  and  had  de- 
cided to  make  a  stop  of  some  length  in  California, 


204  THE  PIONEER 

then  a  terra  incognita  to  the  traveling  Briton.  From 
his  Spanish-Californian  aunt  he  had  brought  letters 
to  the  Newburys,  Mrs.  Davenport,  and  other  promi- 
nent San  Franciscans. 

The  Englishman  of  Harrower's  class  was  at  that 
time  a  rarity  in  the  far  West.  Bonanza  heiresses  had 
not  yet  arisen  to  be  the  bait  for  well-born  foreigners 
of  all  nations.  California,  outside  its  own  borders, 
still  enjoyed  its  original  reputation  as  a  land  of  pic- 
turesque gold-diggers  and  romantic  gamblers,  and 
the  wandering  noble  of  Anglo-Saxon  or  Gallic  ex- 
traction avoided  it  as  an  unsafe  place,  where  men 
were  still  free  with  the  revolver  and  the  bowie  knife. 

Harrower  was  an  even  more  engrossing  object  of 
local  curiosity  than  Mercedes.  He  was  a  good-look- 
ing young  man  of  five  and  twenty,  quiet  in  manner, 
non-committal  and  brief  of  speech,  deeply  interested 
in  all  he  saw,  and  very  shy.  He  was  the  heir  to  a 
baronetcy  and  fine  country  place  in  Warwickshire. 
His  grandfather,  the  present  baronet,  was  in  his 
eighty-first  year,  and,  though  a  hale  old  man,  could 
not  be  expected  to  live  much  longer.  When  he  died 
Lionel  Harrower  would  inherit  the  title  and  lands, 
thereby  coming  into  possession  of  one  of  the  oldest 
and  most  beautiful  estates  in  the  county.  The  young 
man  neither  looked  nor  hinted  any  of  these  matters. 
But  they  were  all  carefully  set  down  in  the  letters 
that  Carmen  Romero  wrote  to  her  sister  and  her 
friends,  and  they  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  ac- 
cumulating material  as  they  progressed.  San  Fran- 
cisco had  not  had  enough  experience  in  the  visiting 
patrician  to  be  familiar  with  all  the  delicate  grada- 


NEW  PLANETS  205 

tions  of  rank,  and  Harrower  was  regarded  as  of 
hardly  less  distinction  than  a  reigning  Grand  Duke. 

With  the  appearance  of  these  two  interesting 
strangers  the  city  emerged  from  its  apathy  of  de- 
pression. A  desire  to  impress  the  new-comers  hos- 
pitably took  possession  of  it.  Both  Mercedes  and 
Harrower  were  caught  in  the  whirl  of  a  round  of 
entertainments,  during  which  they  constantly  en- 
countered each  other.  Thrown  thus  together  their 
acquaintance  rapidly  grew.  Harrower  had  not  been 
a  month  in  San  Francisco  when  the  little  world  about 
him  was  speculating  on  his  interest  in  the  daughter 
of  Black  Dan  Gracey. 

Mercedes  was  now  nearly  nineteen  years  of  age. 
With  her  Spanish  blood  to  round  and  ripen  her,  that 
corresponded  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  woman's  twenty- 
five.  For  all  her  American  birth  and  education  she 
was  at  heart  a  Latin,  subtile,  complex,  and  revengeful. 
There  was  little  of  her  father  in  her.  She  had  none 
of  his  simple  largeness  of  temperament,  but  was 
made  up  of  feline  intricacies  of  caprice,  vanity,  and 
passion.  At  the  present  stage  in  her  life  her  strongest 
instinct  was  love  of  admiration.  She  had  early  com- 
prehended the  power  of  her  beauty,  and  to  exercise 
this  power  was  to  her  a  delight  which  never  lost  its 
zest.  To  throw  a  spell  over  men  was  the  thing  Mer- 
cedes loved  best  to  do,  and  could  do  with  remarkable 
proficiency,  considering  her  years  and  inexperience. 

So  far  she  had  had  few  opportunities.  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell, the  chaperone  to  whom  her  father  had  intrusted 
her,  was  a  capable  New  England  woman  who  had 
early  recognized  the  responsibilities  of  her  position. 


206  THE  PIONEER 

Mercedes,  rich  and  beautiful,  was  a  prize  for  which 
princes  might  have  sued.  But  Mrs.  Campbell  had 
received  instructions  from  Black  Dan  that  he  did  not 
want  his  daughter  taken  from  him  by  marriage  with 
a  foreigner,  and  Mercedes,  during  her  year  in  Europe, 
was  guarded  like  a  princess  traveling  incognito. 
When  she  returned  to  San  Francisco  she  had  never 
yet  received  an  offer  of  marriage,  and  even  her  ad- 
mirers had  been  restricted  in  number  and  kept  sternly 
at  bay. 

To  Mercedes,  Lionel  Harrower  represented  all  that 
was  most  choice  in  position  and  rank.  Through  her 
travels  she  knew  more  of  the  class  he  stood  for  than 
the  admiring  San  Franciscans,  and  it  was  a  class  in 
which  she  ardently  desired  to  install  herself.  She 
questioned  the  young  man  of  his  country  and  his 
people,  prevailed  upon  him  to  show  her  a  photograph 
of  the  stately  Elizabethan  manor  house  which  was  his 
home,  and  to  talk  to  her  of  the  life  he  led  upon  his 
ancestral  acres.  It  was  like  an  English  novel,  and 
Mercedes  saw  herself  moving  through  it,  lovely,  proud 
and  desired,  as  its  conquering  heroine. 

In  June  she  left  the  Lick  House  for  the  country 
place  in  the  Santa  Clara  Valley  that  Black  Dan  had 
taken  for  her.  This  was  the  estate  of  Tres  Pinos, 
one  of  the  show  places  of  the  great  valley,  recently 
thrown  upon  the  market  by  the  death  of  its  owner. 

Tres  Pinos  soon  became  the  focusing  point  of  the 
region's  summer  life.  The  wide  balconies  were  con- 
stantly filled  with  visitors,  the  velvet  turf  of  the 
croquet  grounds  was  swept  by  the  crisp  flounces  of 
women's  dresses,  the  bedrooms  in  the  big  house  were 


NEW  PLANETS  207 

always  occupied.  Mrs.  Campbell,  precise,  darkly  clad, 
and  primly  well-bred,  presided  with  an  all-seeing 
eye,  astonishing  the  Californians  by  her  rigid  ob- 
servance of  the  smaller  conventionalities.  Through 
all  Mercedes  flitted,  clad  in  French  dresses,  more  or- 
nate and  elegant  than  any  ever  seen  before  in  Cali- 
fornia, a  smilingly  gracious  and  finished  person,  evok- 
ing fear  and  jealousy  in  her  own  sex,  and  eliciting 
a  rather  awed  admiration  from  the  other. 

That  Lionel  Harrower  was  a  constant  visitor  at 
Tres  Pinos  the  gossips  were  quick  to  note.  When 
the  young  man  announced  his  intention  of  spending 
the  summer  in  California  it  seemed  to  them  that 
there  was  no  more  doubt  as  to  the  state  of  his  feelings. 
What  they  did  not  know  was  that  his  presence  at 
Tres  Pinos  was  evoked  by  a  constant  flutter  of  scented 
notes  from  the  chatelaine.  There  were  many  times 
when  he  had  refused  the  invitations  with  which  Miss 
Gracey  showered  him.  He  had  found  California,  its 
scenery  and  people,  of  so  much  interest,  that  a  single 
segregated  interest  in  one  particular  human  being  had 
had  no  time  to  develop  in  him.  But  Mercedes  did 
not  think  this.  She  felt  quite  sure  that  Lionel  Har- 
rower was  remaining  in  California  because  of  an 
engrossing  and  unconquerable  sentiment  for  her. 

One  Sunday,  late  in  June,  he  made  one  of  the 
party  which  was  spending  the  week-end  at  Tres  Pinos. 
In  the  warm  middle  of  the  Sabbath  afternoon,  her 
visitors  scattered  over  the  croquet  ground  or  en- 
joying the  siesta  in  the  shuttered  gloom  of  their  bed 
chambers,  Mercedes  started  out  to  find  him.  She 
slipped  down  the  wide  staircase,  peeped  into  the  dim 


208  THE  PIONEER 

drawing-room,  cooled  by  closed  blinds  and  filled 
with  the  scent  of  cut  flowers,  and  then  slipped  out  on 
to  the  balcony. 

A  spiral  of  cigarette  smoke  rising  from  a  steamer 
chair  betrayed  his  presence.  He  was  comfortably 
outstretched  in  loose- jointed  ease,  a  novel  raised 
before  a  pair  of  eyes  which  looked  suspiciously  sleepy, 
his  cigarette  caught  between  his  lips.  At  the  sound 
of  her  voice  he  sprang  up,  but  she  motioned  him 
back  into  his  chair,  and  sitting  down  opposite  began 
to  rally  him  on  his  laziness.  He  looked  at  her  with 
drowsy  good  humor,  his  lids  drooping.  Her  figure 
in  its  pale  colored  muslin  dress  was  thrown  out 
against  a  background  of  velvety  lawns  and  the 
massed,  juicy  greens  of  summer  shrubbery.  It  was 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  hot  and  still.  From  the 
croquet  ground  came  the  soft,  occasional  striking  of 
balls. 

"Just  listen  to  them,"  said  the  young  man,  "they're 
actually  playing  croquet!" 

"Lots  of  people  play  croquet  on  Sunday,"  said 
Mercedes  with  some  haste,  as  she  disliked  to  have 
it  thought  that  she  was  ignorant  of  any  intricacy  of 
etiquette.  "I  don't  see  anything  wrong  in  it." 

"It's  not  the  Sunday  part  of  it.  It's  the  energy. 
Fancy  standing  out  in  that  sun  of  your  own  free 
will !" 

"You're  horribly  lazy,"  said  the  young  girl.  "It's 
your  worst  fault.  You  do  nothing  all  day  but  lie 
about  on  the  balcony  and  drink  lemonade." 

"I  could  drink  beer,"  said  Harrower  dreamily,  "but 
I've  never  seen  anything  but  lemonade." 


NEW  PLANETS  209 

"Well,  I've  come  to  tell  you  that  I'm  going  to 
insist  on  your  being  more  energetic.  I  want  you  to 
take  me  for  a  drive." 

"A  drive!  Now?  But,  my  dear  Miss  Gracey,  the 
sun's  simply  scorching." 

Mercedes  flushed  slightly.     Her  cavalier's  manner 
^of  accepting  the  suggestion  did  not  please  her. 
1     "If  you're  afraid  of  your  complexion,"  she  said, 
"you  can  hold  my  parasol  over  your  head.     I'll  drive." 

Harrower  laughed.  When  she  said  things  of  this 
kind  he  thought  her  what  he  would  have  called  "great 
fun."  Still  he  would  have  much  preferred  remaining 
on  the  balcony  with  his  novel  and  his  cigarette,  to 
braving  the  heat  of  the  afternoon,  even  in  Miss 
Gracey's  smart  new  pony  phaeton,  with  Miss  Gracey 
in  the  driver's  seat.  He  sat  up,  rubbing  his  eyes 
into  a  more  wakeful  brightness  and  smothering  a 
yawn. 

"Where  are  we  to  drive  to?    Menlo  Park  again?" 

"No,  I'm  going  to  take  you  back  in  the  hills  to  the 
De  Soto  place.  It  was  originally  an  old  Spanish  grant 
and  part  of  the  place  is  just  the  way  it  used  to  be. 
The  Aliens  live  there.  They  moved  down  early  this 
year,  so  I  don't  think  you  met  them  in  town.  Some 
people  think  the  girls  are  very  pretty." 

"Pretty  girls !"  said  Harrower,  pricking  up  his  ears. 
"By  all  means  let's  go." 

He  looked  at  her  laughing,  for  he  thought  she 
would  enjoy  the  humor  of  his  sudden  enthusiasm. 
Instead,  for  a  fleeting  second,  her  face  was  clouded 
with  annoyance.  Then  she  recovered  herself  and 
rose  to  her  feet,  moving  away  from  him. 


210  THE  PIONEER 

"The  horses  are  ready  now,"  she  said.  "I'll  go  up 
for  my  hat  and  parasol  and  I'll  expect  to  find  you  at 
the  steps  when  I  come  down." 

The  heat  was  waning,  the  live-oak  shadows  lying 
dark  and  irregular  over  the  drive,  when  the  phaeton 
approached  the  Aliens'  balcony.  The  light  dresses  of 
the  Allen  girls  were  thrown  up  by  the  darker  gown  of 
dignified  middle  age.  Mrs.  Barclay  was  sitting  in 
a  wicker  arm-chair  near  the  balustrade  fanning  her- 
self with  a  palm-leaf  fan.  Mercedes  muttered  annoy- 
ance to  her  companion,  and  then  her  glance  was 
charged  with  a  sudden  infusion  of  interest  as  it  fell 
on  a  graceful  masculine  back  bending  over  a  table 
set  with  plates  and  glasses,  behind  which' June  Allen 
was  standing. 

"That  must  be  Jerry  Barclay,"  she  murmured  to 
Harrower,  as,  with  dexterous  exactness  she  brought  up 
the  phaeton  wheels  against  the  mounting  block.  "I've 
not  met  him  yet.  He's  been  in  Virginia  City,  like 
everybody  else." 

"Ah — aw!  Yes,  of  course,"  Harrower  murmured 
vaguely,  not  knowing  or  caring  in  the  least  about 
Jerry  Barclay,  but  filled  with  sudden  admiration  for 
the  fresh-faced,  blonde  girl  who  rose  at  their  approach 
and  came  to  the  top  of  the  steps.  Though  she  had 
never  seen  him  before  she  included  him  in  the  sweet 
frank  smile  and  friendly  glance  with  which  she 
greeted  Mercedes. 

"Rosamund,"  said  Mercedes,  throwing  the  reins 
around  the  whip  with  the  easy  flourish  of  the  ex- 
pert, "I've  brought  over  Mr.  Harrower.  He's  mak- 
ing a  collection  of  Californian  specimens,  and  I 


NEW  PLANETS  211 

thought  perhaps  he'd  like  to  see  you.  He'll  put  you 
down  under  the  head  of  vertebrate  fauna,  I  suppose." 

The  stranger,  whose  face  had  grown  exceedingly 
red,  did  not  know  whether  in  the  free,  untrammeled 
West  this  constituted  an  introduction.  The  young 
woman,  however,  solved  the  difficulty  by  coming 
down  a  step  or  two  and  extending  a  welcoming  hand. 
He  looked  into  a  pair  of  gray  eyes,  unusually  honest 
and  direct,  and  heard  her  saying  in  a  voice,  not  low- 
keyed,  but  clear  and  full, 

"I'm  glad  you  came,  Mr.  Harrower.  It  was  very 
kind  of  Mercedes  to  bring  you." 

On  the  balcony  above  Mrs.  Barclay  had  risen  and 
was  looking  at  the  new-comers  with  avid  curiosity. 
She  had  already  talked  them  threadbare  in  every 
drawing-room  from  Millbrae  to  Menlo  Park.  Her 
personal  acquaintance  with  both  was  very  slight  and 
this  was  a  good  opportunity  to  improve  it  and  arrive 
at  conclusions,  to  air  which  she  could  once  again 
make  a  tour  of  the  country  houses  and  be  sure  of 
eager  attention. 

Behind  her,  at  a  table  laden  with  a  silver  pitcher, 
glasses  and  plates,  June  was  standing.  She  was  pour- 
ing out  a  glass  of  lemonade,  which  Jerry  was  waiting 
to  take  to  his  mother,  when  the  phaeton  drove  up. 
The  glass  was  filled  and  the  pitcher  set  down,  before 
either  of  them  looked  at  the  new  arrivals.  Then 
Jerry  turned  and  his  eyes  fell  on  them.  He  stopped 
short,  the  glass  in  his  hand.  Mercedes,  a  smile  of 
greeting  on  her  lips,  was  just  mounting  the  steps. 

"Heavens,  what  a  girl!"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  turn- 
ing to  June. 


212  THE  PIONEER 

"Yes,"  she  answered  in  an  equally  low  voice,  "she's 
very  pretty." 

"Pretty !  pretty !"  he  ejaculated,  mechanically  set- 
ting the  glass  down.  "Why  she's  a  dream!" 

He  turned  again  and  looked  at  Mercedes,  who  was 
speaking  to  his  mother.  His  face  was  staring  with 
admiration,  a  slight  fixed  smile  on  his  lips.  It  was 
the  look  of  the  male  suddenly  stricken  by  the  physical 
charm  of  the  female.  June  dropped  her  eyes  to  the 
table  with  a  sensation  of  feeling  cold,  insignificant 
and  small. 

"Your  mother's  lemonade,"  she  said,  pushing  the 
glass  toward  him.  "You  were  going  to  take  it  to  her." 

He  did  not  appear  to  hear  her.  His  eyes  were 
fastened  on  Mercedes,  the  slight  smile  still  on  his 
lips.  Forgetful  of  the  glass  with  which  June  had 
touched  his  hand,  he  slowly  walked  across  the  bal- 
cony to  where  Mrs.  Barclay  stood  and  said  gaily, 

"Mother,  won't  you  introduce  me  to  Miss  Gracey? 
We  came  very  near  meeting  at  Foleys  three  years 
ago  and  just  missed  it.  I  don't  want  that  to  happen 
again." 

When  June  had  welcomed  her  guests  she  went  back 
to  her  seat  behind  the  table.  Presently  Mrs.  Bar- 
clay drew  her  chair  nearer  to  her,  for  Mrs.  Barclay 
began  to  feel  that  to  be  a  fifth  among  four  young 
people  so  well  pleased  with  one  another  was  not  en- 
tertaining. So  she  moved  up  toward  June  and  talked 
to  her  about  the  dishonesty  of  the  new  butcher  at 
San  Mateo  as  compared  with  that  of  the  old  butcher 
at  Menlo  Park. 

June  listened  and  now  and  then  spoke.     She  did 


NEW  PLANETS  213 

not  seem  to  know  much  about  either  butcher,  and 
Mrs.  Barclay  made  a  mental  note  of  the  fact  that 
she  must  be  a  poor  housekeeper.  Once  or  twice  she 
looked  at  the  elder  woman  with  eyes  that  were  dis- 
concertingly empty  of  attention.  When  that  lady 
rose  to  go  she  remarked  that  the  girl  looked  pale  and 
tired.  She  said  this  to  Jerry  on  the  way  home. 

"Did  she?"  he  answered  absently.  "Poor  little 
June!  She's  just  the  dearest  little  woman  in  the 
world.  But  isn't  that  Gracey  girl  a  wonder?  I  never 
saw  a  more  beautiful  face." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  CHOICE  OF  MAIDS 

During  the  months  of  summer,  dwellers  along  the 
line  of  the  railway  became  familiar  with  the  figure  of 
Lionel  Harrower.  He  constantly  went  down  to  San 
Mateo  on  Sunday  afternoons  and  returned  to  town 
on  Sunday  evening.  This,  at  first,  was  regarded  as 
the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  his  devotion  to  Miss 
Gracey,  but  by  and  by  it  was  remarked  that  he  did 
not  take  the  Gracey  carriage  which  so  often  stood 
under  the  live-oaks  at  the  depot,  but  mounted  a 
hired  hack  and  was  driven  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
De  Soto  house. 

It  was  a  Sunday  or  two  after  Mercedes  had  driven 
him  there  that  the  young  Englishman  had  appeared 
on  the  balcony  steps,  very  red  and  warm  from  the  heat 
of  the  afternoon,  and  paid  a  long  call,  which  extended 
so  far  into  the  twilight  that  he  was  bidden  to  dinner 
and  did  not  go  back  to  town  till  a  late  evening  train. 

It  had  evidently  been  an  enjoyable  afternoon,  for 
he  repeated  it,  and  then  again  repeated  it,  and  finally 
let  it  develop  into  a  habit.  He  wrote  to  his  relations 
in  England  that  he  was  deeply  interested  in  California 
and  was  studying  the  mining  industry  of  that  remark- 
able state.  And  it  is  true  that  once  in  the  middle  of 
214 


THE  CHOICE  OF  MAIDS  215 

the  summer  he  went  to  Virginia  for  a  few  days  and 
came  back  with  his  mind  full  of  excellent  material 
for  a  letter  to  his  grandfather  which  should  prove 
how  profound  had  been  his  study  of  the  American 
mining  and  engineering  methods. 

The  first  afternoon  that  Mercedes  found  him  on 
the  Aliens'  balcony  she  was  openly  surprised.  The 
second  she  was  sweet  and  gracious,  but  her  rose-leaf 
color  deepened  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  it  was  notice- 
able that,  for  one  who  was  usually  so  completely 
mistress  of  herself,  she  was  distrait  and  lacking  in 
repose.  On  leaving,  she  had  asked  him  if  she 
could  drive  him  back  to  the  station,  as  her  road  lay 
that  way,  to  which  the  young  man  had  answered,  with 
the  stiff  politeness  of  embarrassment,  that  he  was  to 
stay  to  dinner — "he  always  did  on  Sunday." 

This  was  the  inception  of  a  situation  that,  before 
the  summer  was  over,  had  caused  more  heart-burn- 
ings, more  wakeful  nights  and  distressed  days,  than 
the  peaceful  valley  had  known  in  many  years. 

For  the  first  time  in  an  existence  of  triumph  and 
adulation  Mercedes  knew  defeat.  She  had  been  cer- 
tain of  her  attraction  for  Harrower,  and  confident 
that  by  her  beauty  and  her  wiles  she  could,  before  his 
departure,  fan  his  interest  to  a  warmer  flame.  Yet 
July  was  not  spent  before  she  realized  that  a  force 
more  potent  than  any  she  could  put  forth  was  lead- 
ing the  young  man  in  another  direction.  His  visits 
to  the  Aliens'  grew  more  and  more  frequent  as  those 
to  Tres  Finos  became  less  so.  Curiosity  in  his  in- 
terest in  the  occupants  of  the  De  Soto  house  evolved 
itself  into  curiositv  in  his  interest  in  Rosamund  Allen. 


216  THE  PIONEER 

He  forgot  the  tours  he  had  intended  to  take  into  the 
interior,  showed  no  more  interest  in  Virginia  City, 
and  gave  up  his  plan  of  a  horse-back  expedition  to 
the  Yosemite.  He  spent  the  summer  in  town,  making 
trips  to  San  Mateo  that  grew  more  and  more  frequent. 

It  was  difficult  for  Mercedes  to  believe  it,  but  when 
she  did  it  kindled  sleeping  fires  in  her.  She  was  doubly 
wounded;  heart  and  pride  were  hurt.  Her  overmas- 
tering vanity  had  received  its  first  blow.  Not  only 
had  she  lost  the  man  for  whom  her  feeling  was  daily 
growing  warmer,  but  it  would  be  known  of  all  men 
that  he  had  withdrawn  his  affections  from  her  to 
place  them  on  a  girl  far  her  inferior  in  looks,  educa- 
tion and  feminine  charm.  That  he  should  have  pre- 
ferred Rosamund  was  particularly  maddening — Rosa- 
mund, whom  she  had  regarded  as  commonplace  and 
countrified.  She  looked  in  her  glass,  and  furious 
tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  It  was  staggering,  in- 
comprehensible, but  it  was  true.  She  was  discarded, 
and  people  were  laughing  at  her. 

Two  instincts — strong  in  women  of  her  type — rose 
within  her.  One  demanded  revenge  and  the  other 
protection  of  her  pride.  She  burned  with  the  de- 
sire to  strike  back  at  those  who  had  hurt  her,  and 
at  the  same  to  hide  the  wounds  to  her  self-love.  She 
knew  of  but  one  way  to  do  the  latter,  and  it  came  upon 
her — not  suddenly,  but  with  a  gradually  uplifting 
illumination — that  it  could  be  successfully  combined 
with  the  execution  of  the  former. 

Mercedes,  who  liked  gossip,  had  heard  the  story  of 
Jerry  Barclay's  complication  with  Mrs.  Newbury,  and 
of  how  it  was  popularly  supposed  to  have  prevented 


THE  CHOICE  OF  MAIDS  217 

his  marriage  to  June  Allen.  The  busy  scandal-hunters 
of  the  city  had  somehow  unearthed  the  story  that 
Jerry  and  June  would  have  married  had  the  former 
been  free.  Mercedes,  with  her  woman's  quickness, 
guessed  that  June  was  the  sort  of  girl  who  would 
remain  constant  in  such  a  situation.  But  Jerry  was 
a  being  of  another  stripe,  a  man  of  an  unusual  attrac- 
tion for  women  and  of  a  light  and  errant  fancy.  She 
had  not  met  him  half  a  dozen  times  when  she  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  his  love  for  June  was  on  the 
wane,  his  roving  eye  ready  to  be  caught,  his  ear  held, 
by  the  first  soft  glance  and  flattering  tongue  he 
encountered. 

Thus  the  way  of  protecting  herself  and  of  hitting 
back  at  one  at  least  of  the  Aliens  was  put  into  her 
hand.  She  did  not  care  for  Jerry,  save  as  he  was  use- 
ful to  her,  though  he  had  the  value  of  the  thing 
which  is  highly  prized  by  others.  She  used  every 
weapon  in  her  armory  to  attract  and  subjugate  him. 
Jerry  himself,  versed  in  the  wiles  of  women  as  he 
was,  was  deceived  by  her  girlishly  open  pleasure  in 
his  attentions,  her  fluttered  embarrassment  when  he 
paid  her  compliments. 

His  first  feeling  toward  her  was  an  unbounded  ad- 
miration for  her  physical  perfections,  to  which  was 
added  a  complacent  vanity  at  her  obvious  predilection 
for  him.  But  the  woman  that  he  regarded  as  a 
naive  ingenue  was  a  being  of  a  more  complex  brain, 
a  more  daring  initiative,  and  a  cooler  head  than  he 
had  ever  possessed.  Vain  and  self-indulgent,  the 
slave  of  his  passions,  he  was  in  reality  a  puppet  in 
the  hands  of  a  girl  fifteen  years  his  junior,  who,  under 


218  THE  PIONEER 

an  exterior  of  flower-like  delicacy,  had  been  eaten 
into  by  the  acids  of  rage  and  revenge. 

While  he  still  thought  himself  a  trifler  in  the  outer 
court  of  sentiment  he  was  already  under  her  domin- 
ion. He  thought  of  himself  as  taking  an  impersonally 
admiring  interest  in  her  when  he  was  continually 
haunted  by  the  thought  of  her,  and  hastened  to  spend 
his  spare  hours  beside  her,  his  eyes  drinking  in  her 
beauty,  his  vanity  fostered  and  stimulated  by  the 
flattery  she  so  cunningly  administered.  Like  Paris, 
he  felt  himself  beloved  by  goddesses.  June's  image 
faded.  Two  years  had  passed  since  his  confession  in 
the  wood.  He  had  seen  her  only  at  intervals  and 
then  under  a  perpetual  ban  of  restraint.  He  was  not 
the  man  to  remain  constant  to  a  memory.  June 
hovered  on  the  edges  of  his  consciousness  like  a  sad- 
eyed  shadow,  looking  at  him  with  a  pleading  protest 
that  made  him  feel  angry  with  her.  She  was  a  dim, 
unappealing  figure  beside  the  radiant  youthfulness, 
the  sophisticated  coquetries  of  Black  Dan's  daughter. 

During  the  early  part  of  the  summer  June  was  in 
ignorance  of  the  momentous  shuffling  of  the  cards  of 
her  destiny.  She  lived  quietly,  rarely  going  to  the 
city,  and  spending  most  of  her  time  in  the  gardens 
or  on  the  balcony.  Rosamund,  who  went  about  more, 
marketed  in  the  village  and  shopped  in  town,  began 
to  hear  rumors  of  Jerry's  interest  in  Miss  Gracey. 
She  met  them  riding  together  in  the  hot  solitude  of 
the  country  roads,  saw  them  meet  on  the  trains  to  the 
city.  Finally  the  rumors  passed  to  San  Francisco  and 
the  Colonel  heard  them.  He  came  down  to  San  Ma- 
teo  that  Saturday  to  talk  things  over  with  Rosa- 


THE  CHOICE  OF  MAIDS  219 

mund.     They  were  worried  and  uneasy,  a  sense  of 
calamity  weighing  on  them  both. 

Though  June  was  one  of  those  women  who  obsti- 
nately adhere  to  the  bright  side,  who  cling  to  hope 
till  it  crumbles  in  their  hands,  she  felt,  during  the 
summer,  premonitions  of  ill  fortune.  Those  inex- 
plicable shadows  of  approaching  evil  that  Nature 
throws  forward  over  the  path  of  sensitive  tempera- 
ments had  darkened  her  outlook.  She  questioned 
herself  as  to  her  heaviness  of  heart,  assuring  herself 
that  there  was  no  new  cloud  on  her  horizon.  In  the 
constancy  of  her  own  nature  she  did  not  realize,  as 
a  more  experienced  woman  would,  that  her  hold  on 
Jerry  was  a  silken  thread  which  would  wear  very 
thin  in  the  passage  of  years,  and  be  ready  to  snap  at 
the  first  strain. 

But  the  moods  of  apprehension  and  gloom  began 
to  be  augmented  by  ripples  from  the  pool  of  gossip 
without.  She  heard  that  Jerry  was  oftener  in  San 
Mateo  than  ever  before,  and  she  saw  him  less  fre- 
quently. One  afternoon  she  met  him  driving  with 
Mercedes,  and  the  girl's  radiant  smile  of  recognition 
had  something  of  malicious  triumph  under  its  beam- 
ing sweetness.  June  drove  home  silent  and  pale.  In 
her  room  she  tried  to  argue  herself  out  of  her  de- 
pression. But  it  stayed  with  her,  made  her  preoccu- 
pied and  quiet  all  the  evening,  lay  down  with  her  at 
night,  and  was  heavy  and  cold  at  her  heart  in  the 
morning. 

<w  At  the  end  of  September  they  returned  to  town. 
They  had  been  back  a  few  weeks  when  one  after- 
noon she  met  Jerry  on  the  street  and  they  stopped 


220  THE  PIONEER 

for  a  few  moments'  conversation.  It  was  nothing 
more  than  the  ordinary  interchange  of  commonplaces 
between  old  friends,  but  when  he  had  passed  on,  the 
girl  walked  forward  looking  wan  and  feeling  a  deadly 
sense  of  blankness.  He  was  the  same  man,  gay,  hand- 
some, suave,  and  yet  he  seemed  suddenly  far  removed 
from  her,  to  be  smiling  with  the  perfunctory  polite- 
ness of  a  stranger.  The  chill  exhaled  by  a  dying 
love  penetrated  her,  pierced  her  to  the  core.  She  did 
not  understand  it,  him,  or  herself.  All  that  she  knew 
was  that  the  sense  of  despondency  became  suddenly 
overpowering,  and  closed  like  an  iron  clutch  on  her 
heart. 

It  was  an  overcast  autumn  that  year,  with  much 
gray  weather  and  early  fogs.  The  city  had  never 
looked  to  June  so  cheerless.  She  was  a  great  deal 
alone,  Rosamund's  time  being  more  and  more  claimed 
by  Lionel  Harrower.  He  was  her  first  lover,  and  it 
was  a  part  of  Rosamund's  fate  that  he  should  have 
come  to  her  unexpected  and  unasked  for.  She  was 
of  the  order  of  women  who  stand  where  they  are 
placed,  doing  what  comes  under  their  hand,  demand- 
ing little  of  life,  and  to  whom  life's  gifts  come  as  a 
surprise. 

That  such  a  man  as  the  young  Briton  should  prefer 
her  to  her  sister,  whose  superior  charm  she  had  always 
acknowledged  and  been  proud  of,  was  to  her  aston- 
ishing. She  was  sobered  and  softened  in  these  days 
of  awakening  love.  One  could  see  the  woman,  the 
mother,  ripe,  soft,  full  of  a  quiet  devotion,  slowly 
dawning.  Sometimes  she  was  irritable,  a  thing  pre- 
viously unknown.  She  could  not  believe  that  Har- 


THE  CHOICE  OF  MAIDS  221 

rower  loved  her,  and  yet  as  the  days  passed,  and  she 
found  the  hours  spent  with  him  growing  ever  more 
disturbingly  sweet,  she  wondered  how  she  could  ever 
support  a  life  in  which  he  did  not  figure,  and  the 
thought  filled  her  with  torturing  fears. 

One  gray  afternoon,  Rosamund  having  left  for  a 
walk  in  the  park  with  Harrower,  June,  after  wander- 
ing about  the  empty  house  for  a  dreary  hour,  re- 
solved that  she  too  would  go  out  for  a  stroll.  She 
had  felt  more  cheerful  lately.  Jerry  had  come  to  call 
two  days  before,  when  she  was  out,  and  this  fact  had 
seemed  to  her  a  proof  of  his  unwaned  interest.  She 
had  written  him  a  brief  note,  stating  her  regrets  at 
missing  him  and  her  hopes  that  he  would  repeat  the 
visit  soon.  This  was  only  polite  and  proper,  she 
assured  herself. 

Her  walk  took  her  to  Van  Ness  Avenue  and  then 
up  the  side  street  toward  the  little  Turk  Street  plaza. 
For  the  past  two  years  it  had  been  a  favorite  prome- 
nade of  hers.  The  present  was  not  sufficiently  fraught 
with  pain  to  render  memories  of  a  happier  past  un- 
bearable. She  strolled  through  the  small  park  and 
then  returned  and  walked  back  toward  the  avenue. 
As  she  turned  the  corner  into  the  great  thoroughfare, 
she  stopped,  the  color  dying  from  her  face,  the  soft- 
ness of  its  outlines  stiffening. 

Walking  slowly  toward  her  were  Jerry  and  Mer- 
cedes Gracey.  They  were  close  together,  Mercedes 
lightly  touching  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers  the  top 
of  the  ornamental  fence  beside  her.  Her  eyes  were 
down-drooped,  her  whole  air  one  of  maidenly  mod- 
esty, which  yet  had  in  it  something  coyly  encouraging. 


222  THE  PIONEER 

Jerry,  close  at  her  shoulder,  was  looking  down  at  her, 
with  the  eyes  of  a  lover. 

For  the  first  moment  June  was  too  stricken  to 
move.  She  stood  spellbound,  poised  in  mid-flight, 
hungrily  staring.  Then  the  desire  for  concealment 
seized  her,  and  she  was  about  to  turn  and  steal  back 
to  the  corner  whence  she  had  come,  when  Mercedes 
raised  her  eyes  and  saw  her.  She  threw  a  short, 
quick  phrase  at  Jerry,  and  he  started  and  drew  him- 
self up.  June  moved  forward,  and  as  she  approached 
them  forced  her  lips  into  a  smile  and  bowed.  She 
was  conscious  that  Jerry  had  flushed  and  looked  angry 
as  he  raised  his  hat.  But  Mercedes  enveloped  her 
in  a  glance  of  fascinating  cordiality,  inclining  her 
head  in  a  graceful  salutation. 

A  half-hour  later  June  gained  her  room  and 
sank  into  an  arm-chair.  For  some  time  she  sat  mo- 
tionless, gazing  at  the  gray  oblongs  of  the  two  win- 
dows with  their  shadowy  upper  draperies.  As  the 
look  in  Jerry's  face  kept  rising  upon  her  mental 
vision,  she  experienced  a  slight  sensation  of  nausea 
and  feebleness.  But  even  in  this  hour  of  revelation 
she  kept  whispering  to  herself, 

"He  couldn't !  He  couldn't !  He  couldn't  have  the 
heart !  He  couldn't  hurt  me  so !" 

The  few  poor  memories  she  had  of  moments  of 
tenderness  between  them,  the  meager  words  of  love 
that  she  had  regarded  as  binding  vows,  rose  in  her 
mind.  It  had  seemed  to  her  he  could  no  more  dis- 
regard them  than  she  could.  She  thought  of  herself 
responding  to  the  love  of  another  man — of  its  im- 
possibility— and  sat  bowed  together  in  her  chair,  for 


THE  CHOICE  OF  MAIDS  223 

the  first  time  catching  a  revealing  gleam  of  the  dif- 
ference in  their  attitudes.  Then  the  memory  of  Mrs. 
Newbury  came  to  her,  and  with  it  a  strengthening 
sense  of  his  unbreakable  obligation.  Nearly  three 
years  ago,  when  June  had  first  heard  of  this,  it  had 
seemed  so  degraded  and  repulsive  that  she  had  shrunk 
from  the  thought  of  it.  Now,  sitting  lonely  in  the 
twilight,  her  eyes  staring  at  the  gray  panes,  she  re- 
called it  with  relief,  found  it  a  thing  to  be  glad  of, 
to  congratulate  herself  upon.  The  city  had  put  its 
stain  upon  her.  Her  maidenly  fastidiousness  was 
smirched  with  its  mud. 

Plunged  in  these  dark  thoughts  she  did  not  hear 
the  door  open,  nor  see  Rosamund's  head  gently  in- 
serted. It  was  not  till  the  rustling  of  her  advanc- 
ing skirts  was  distinct  on  the  silence  that  June 
started  and  turned.  The  last  light  of  day  fell  through 
the  long  window  on  the  younger  girl's  face,  rosy  with 
exercise,  and  shining  with  a  new  happiness.  She 
paused  by  June's  chair  and  stood  there,  looking  down. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  preoccupation  of 
her  own  affairs  prevented  her  from  noticing  her  sis- 
ter's sickly  appearance. 

"It's  all  arranged,  June,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Arranged!"  repeated  June,  looking  up  quickly, 
her  ear  struck  by  something  unusual  in  her  sister's 
tone.  "What's  arranged?" 

"Everything  between  Mr.  Harrower  and  me.  We're 
— we're — " 

"You're  engaged?"  said  June,  almost  solemnly. 

Rosamund,  looking  into  the  upturned  face,  nodded. 
There  was  a  sudden  pricking  of  tears  under  her 


224  THE  PIONEER 

eyelids,  an  unexpected  quivering  of  her  lips.  She 
bent  down  and  laid  her  cheek  against  her  sister's, 
and  in  the  dim  room  they  clung  together  for  a  silent 
moment,  one  in  the  first  flush  of  her  woman's  happi- 
ness, the  other  in  the  dawning  realization  of  her 
desertion. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  QUICKENING   CURRENT 

The  last  quarter  of  1873  was  for  California  and 
Nevada  a  period  of  steadily  augmenting  excitement. 
The  rumor  of  new  strikes  in  the  California  and  Con. 
Virginia  grew  with  each  week,  seizing  upon  the 
minds  of  men,  shaking  them  from  the  lethargy  of 
their  disbelief,  arresting  them  in  the  plodding  ways 
of  work  by  the  temptation  of  riches,  in  vast  quanti- 
ties, easily  made,  open  to  the  hands  of  all  who  dared. 

Reports  from  Virginia  by  wire,  by  letter,  by  word 
of  mouth  poured  into  San  Francisco.  The  news  that 
a  southeast  drift  had  run  into  a  rich  ore-body  in  the 
California  and  Con.  Virginia  was  two  weeks  later 
supplemented  by  a  rumor  that  a  chamber  had  been 
cut  in  the  ledge,  the  ore-surface  assaying  from  ninety- 
three  to  six  hundred  and  thirty-two  dollars  per  ton. 

The  male  population  of  the  city  surged  back  and 
forth  across  the  mountains,  seized  with  the  fever  for 
gold.  The  wild  days  of  mining  speculation  were  not 
yet  fully  inaugurated,  but  with  the  increasing  dis- 
coveries shares  in  all  the  properties  near  the  new 
bonanzas  began  to  rise,  and  the  world  once  more 
began  to  buy.  From  across  the  mountains  truth  and 
rumor  flowed  in  ever-accelerating  waves  to  San 
225 


226  THE  PIONEER 

Francisco,  and  stocks  began  to  leap  as  they  had  done 
in  the  Crown  Point  and  Belcher  days. 

In  the  middle  of  this  outer  ring  of  excitement  the 
little  group  of  the  Colonel  and  his  friends  was 
shaken  by  tumults  of  its  own  creating.  The  great 
wheel  outside  spun  round  with  fury  while  the  little 
wheel  inside  flew  with  an  equal  speed.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  fever  of  life  around  them  was  communicating 
itself  to  them,  making  their  blood  flow  quicker,  their 
pulses  throb  harder,  lifting  them  up  to  planes  where 
the  air  was  charged  with  dynamic  forces,  and  elec- 
tric vibrations  hummed  along  the  serene  currents  of 
life. 

Both  Allen  and  the  Colonel  were  smitten  by  temp- 
tation. Like  a  man  suddenly  arrested  in  happy,  un- 
disturbed wayfaring  by  some  irresistible  call  to  sin, 
the  Colonel  stood  irresolute,  fighting  with  his  desire 
once  more  to  "try  his  luck."  His  resources  had 
grown  smaller  again  within  the  last  year,  and  he 
found  it  meant  financiering  to  keep  up  the  donations 
for  "Carter's  girl"  and  "G.  T/s  widow."  Early  in  the 
year  he  had  sold  one  of  the  South  Park  houses,  almost 
the  only  good  piece  of  property  he  still  retained,  paid 
his  assessments  for  the  new  pumps  they  were  put- 
ting up  in  the  mine  in  Shasta  and  placed  "Joe's  boy" 
in  business.  "Carter's  girl"  would  not  be  a  care  much 
longer.  She  was  eighteen  and  engaged  to  be  married. 
"G.  T.'s  widow"  was  the  only  pensioner  that  would 
remain  on  his  hands  till  either  he  or  she  was  called 
to  a  final  account.  The  Colonel  felt  that  he  must  live 
up  to  her  ideal  of  him,  which  was  that  he  was  as 
good  financially  as  the  Bank  of  England. 


THE  QUICKENING  CURRENT          227 

Allen  had  not  a  thought  to  give  to  such  matters  as 
individual  pecuniary  obligations.  He  was  continually 
at  his  mine  or  in  Virginia,  returning  for  brief  visits 
at  odd  times,  when  he  talked  thickly  and  volubly  of 
the  wonderful  developments  of  the  Nevada  camp.  He 
was  deteriorating  rapidly.  He  drank  now  in  the 
daytime.  There  were  stories  going  about  that 
ore  in  the  Barranca  was  very  low  grade,  the  ore- 
body  narrowing.  In  October  the  Colonel  met  a  min- 
ing man  from  the  locality  who  said  it  was  common 
talk  at  Foleys  that  the  Barranca  was  "pinching  out." 
Whether  it  was  or  not  Allen  was  known  to  be  in- 
vesting in  "wildcat"  in  Virginia.  He  went  about 
with  his  pockets  full  of  maps  which  he  was  per- 
petually unrolling  and  pointing  out  this  or  that  un- 
developed claim  which  would  some  day  yield  a  new 
bonanza  and  was  now  a  prospect  hole  in  the  sage 
brush. 

The  engagement  of  Rosamund  filled  him  with  de- 
light. He  was  a  man  whose  affection  was  largely 
founded  on  pride,  and  it  satisfied  him  that  one  of 
his  girls  should  "capture,"  as  he  expressed  it,  a 
fiance  so  eminently  eligible.  He  made  much  of  Rosa- 
mund, of  whom  he  had  never  before  been  as  fond  as 
he  was  of  June,  and  treated  Harrower  with  a  familiar 
jocoseness  under  which  that  reserved  young  man 
winced  and  was  restive. 

"He  thinks  I'm  rich,"  Allen  had  said  one  evening 
to  the  Colonel  as  they  sat  alone  over  their  cigars. 
"He  thinks  he's  going  to  get  a  fortune  with  Rosa- 
mund." 

"What  put  that  into  your  head?"  the  Colonel  had 


228  THE  PIONEER 

asked  in  sudden  annoyance.  "The  boy  loves  her  as 
he  ought  to.  He's  a  man,  that  fellow.  He's  not 
after  money." 

"Maybe  that's  your  opinion,"  the  other  had  re- 
turned, "but  I  happen  to  have  a  different  one.  He 
takes  me  for  a  millionaire  mining  man  and  thinks 
Rosamund's  going  to  get  her  slice  of  the  millions  for 
a  dowry.  He's  going  to  get  left,  but  that's  not  my 
concern  or  yours.  Rosamund  '11  have  as  good  a 
trousseau  as  any  girl,  but  when  you  come  to 
dowry — !" 

He  broke  off,  laughing.  The  Colonel  found  it 
difficult  to  respond  without  a  show  of  temper. 

"You're  all  off,"  he  answered  dryly.  "When  his 
grandfather  dies — and  the  old  fellow's  over  eighty 
now — he'll  have  one  of  the  finest  estates  in  the  part 
of  England  where  he's  located.  What's  he  want  with 
your  money?  Why,  he  could  buy  up  and  put  in 
his  pocket  a  whole  bunch  of  plungers  like  you,  with 
your  wildcat  shares.  Can't  you  believe  that  the 
boy's  honestly  in  love  with  a  girl  like  Rosamund?" 

"Oh,  Jim,  you're  an  old  maid!"  the  other  returned 
with  his  irritating,  lazy  laughter.  "He's  in  love  with 
Rosamund  all  right,  but  he's  also  in  love  with  the 
money  he  thinks  he's  going  to  get  with  her.  But 
don't  you  fret.  It'll  be  all  right.  He's  a  decent 
enough  fellow,  but  it's  a  good  thing  for  us  he's  not 
got  more  sense." 

Thus  the  older  men  had  their  anxieties,  as  the 
young  people  had  theirs.  And  all  this  agglomeration 
of  divers  emotions  and  interests  concentrated,  even 
as  the  pressure  in  the  city  without,  the  year 


THE  QUICKENING  CURRENT          229 

sweeping  toward  its  close  with  ever  increasing  mo- 
mentum, like  a  river  rushing  toward  the  sea. 

October  was  a  month  of  movement,  pressure  and 
stir.  While  San  Francisco  waited  expectant  for  its 
first  cleansing  rains,  Harrower  left  for  England,  to 
return  in  the  spring  and  claim  his  bride.  In  the  long 
gray  afternoons  June  sat  much  at  home,  brooding 
over  the  sitting-room  fire,  waiting  for  a  visitor  who 
never  came.  Mercedes  moved  up  from  Tres  Pinos 
and  took  possession  of  the  city  house  her  father  had 
rented  for  her.  She  was  blooming  and  gay  after  her 
summer  in  the  country.  Her  heart  was  swelled  with 
triumph,  for  she  knew  the  game  was  won,  and,  caught 
in  the  eddies  of  the  whirling  current,  she  too  was 
swept  forward  toward  a  future  that  was  full  of  tan- 
talizing secrets. 


CHAPTER   XI 


LUPE  S  CHAINS  ARE  BROKEN 

One  of  the  most  harassed  and  uneasy  men  in  these 
stormy  days  was  Jerry  Barclay.  He  had  arrived  at 
a  point  in  his  career  where  he  stood  arrested  and 
uncertain  between  diverging  paths.  His  infatuation 
for  Mercedes  drew  him  to  her  like  a  magnet  and  sent 
him  from  her  in  troubled  distress,  not  knowing  what 
to  do,  longing  for  his  freedom  and  sometimes  wonder- 
ing whether  he  would  marry  her  if  he  had  his  free- 
dom. 

He  thought  she  loved  him  as  other  women  had 
done,  and  he  often  wondered  if  he  really  loved  her. 
In  the  sudden  glimpses  of  clairvoyance  which  come 
to  souls  swayed  by  passion,  he  saw  life  with  Mer- 
cedes as  a  coldly  splendid  waste  in  which  he  wan- 
dered, lonely  and  bereft  of  comfort.  Shaken  from 
his  bondage  by  one  of  these  moments  of  clear 
sight,  he  felt  a  conviction  that  he  did  not  love  her, 
declared  himself  free  of  her  enchantments,  and  at 
the  first  glance  of  invitation  in  her  eyes,  the  first 
beckoning  gesture  of  her  hand,  was  back  at  her  side, 
as  much  her  slave  as  ever. 

He  pushed  June  from  his  mind  in  these  days,  saw 
her  seldom,  and  then  showed  that  cold  constraint  of 
230 


LUPE'S  CHAINS  ARE  BROKEN        231 

manner  which  the  artless  and  unsubtile  man  assumes 
to  the  woman  toward  whom  he  knows  his  conduct 
to  be  mean  and  unworthy.  June  lay  heavy  on  his 
conscience.  The  thought  of  her  and  what  she  was 
enduring  made  him  feel  ashamed  and  guilty.  And 
he  was  angry  that  he  should  feel  this  way — angry 
with  June,  against  whom  he  seemed  to  have  a  special 
grievance. 

He  argued  with  himself  that  he  was  under  no  ob- 
ligation to  her.  He  had  never  made  any  binding 
declaration  to  her,  and  he  had  honestly  told  her 
that  he  was  not  free  to  marry.  How  many  men 
would  have  done  that?  If  she  was  so  unsophisticated 
as  to  take  the  few  sentimental  remarks  he  had  made 
as  a  serious  plighting  of  vows  it  was  not  his 
fault.  He  affected  to  have  forgotten  the  remarks. 
Even  in  thinking  to  himself  he  assumed  the  air  of  one 
who  finds  it  too  trivial  a  matter  for  remembrance. 
But  the  truth  was  that  every  sentence  was  clear  in 
his  mind,  and  the  recollection  of  the  pure  and  honest 
feeling  of  that  year  stung  him  with  an  unfamiliar 
sense  of  shame. 

In  his  heart  he  knew  that  of  the  three  women  who 
had  played  so  prominent  a  part  in  his  life,  June  was 
the  one  he  had  really  loved.  There  were  moments 
now,  when,  deep  in  the  bottom  of  his  consciousness, 
he  felt  that  he  loved  her  still.  The  clairvoyant  glimpses 
of  a  life  with  her  were  very  different.  But  he  was 
not  free !  Why,  he  said  to  himself  with  a  magnani- 
mous air,  why  waste  her  life  by  encouraging  her  in 
fruitless  hopes?  Mercedes  was  quite  a  different 
person.  She  could  take  care  of  herself. 


232  THE  PIONEER 

They  were  certainly  troublous  times  for  Jerry.  He 
had  a  man's  hatred  of  a  scene  and  the  interviews  he 
had  with  Mrs.  Newbury  were  now  always  scenes.  He 
left  her  presence  sore  and  enraged  with  the  fury  of 
her  taunts,  or  humiliated  by  the  more  intolerable 
outbursts  of  tears  and  pleadings,  into  which  she  some- 
times broke. 

He  felt  with  a  sort  of  aggrieved  protest  that  after 
nearly  ten  years  of  devotion  Lupe  ought  to  be  more 
reasonable.  Jerry  was  confidently  sure  that,  as  he 
expressed  it,  he  had  "shown  himself  very  much  of 
a  gentleman"  where  Lupe  was  concerned.  He  had 
been  gentle  and  forbearing  with  her.  Long  after 
his  affection  had  died  he  had  been  patient  with  her 
exactions  and  borne  her  upbraidings.  He  had  kept 
a  promise  that  had  been  made  in  the  first  madness  of 
their  infatuation  and  that  many  men  would  have  re- 
garded as  ridiculous.  In  his  behavior  to  his  mistress 
Jerry  saw  himself  a  knight  of  chivalry.  He  did  not 
tell  himself  that  the  main  ingredient  of  his  chivalry 
was  a  secret  but  acute  fear  of  the  violent  woman 
whom  his  neglect  had  rendered  desperate.  She  had 
threatened  that  she  would  kill  herself.  Once  or  twice 
of  late,  in  what  he  called  her  "tantrums,"  she  had 
threatened  to  kill  him.  After  these  interviews  Jerry 
went  from  her  presence  chilled  and  sobered.  She 
was  in  despair  and  he  knew  it  and  knew  her.  Some 
day  Lupe  might  keep  her  word. 

One  afternoon  in  October  he  had  stopped  in  at 
the.  Newbury  house  to  pay  one  of  those  brief  vis- 
its which  had  replaced  the  long  stolen  interviews  of 
the  past.  He  had  met  Newbury  down  town  in  the 


LUPE'S  CHAINS  ARE  BROKEN        233 

morning  and  been  told  that  Lupe  was  not  feeling 
well.  She  had  lately  suffered  from  headaches,  an 
unknown  ailment  for  her.  Newbury  was  worried;  he 
wanted  her  to  have  the  doctor,  for  she  really  looked 
bad  and  seemed  very  much  out  of  spirits. 

Jerry  found  her  looking  exceedingly  white  and 
very  quiet.  She  had  evidently  been  ill  and  showed 
the  marks  of  suffering.  He  was  relieved  to  see  that 
she  was  in  a  fairly  tranquil  state  of  mind,  with  no  in- 
tention of  making  a  scene.  In  fact,  to  his  secret  joy 
he  found  that  he  could  keep  the  conversation  on  the 
impersonal,  society  plane  upon  which  he  had  often 
before  attempted  to  maintain  it,  invariably  without 
success.  But  Lupe  to-day  had  evidently  no  spirit  to 
quarrel  or  to  weep.  She  sat  in  a  large  arm-chair  in 
an  attitude  of  listless  weariness,  her  skin  looking 
whiter,  her  hair  and  eyes  blacker  than  usual.  She  had 
lost  in  weight  and  though  in  her  thirty-seventh  year 
was  as  handsome  as  she  had  ever  been. 

Jerry  kept  one  eye  on  the  clock.  If  he  could  get 
away  early  enough  he  was  going  to  see  a  new  horse 
Black  Dan  had  just  given  Mercedes.  A  year  of  prac- 
tice had  made  him  very  expert  in  bringing  interviews 
with  Lupe  to  an  abrupt  end,  leaving  her  too  quickly 
to  give  her  time  to  change  from  the  serenity  of  gen- 
eral conversation  to  the  hysterical  note  of  rage  and 
grievance. 

"Well,  Lupe,"  he  said,  rising  and  going  to  her  side, 
"I  must  be  going.  I'm  glad  you're  so  much  better. 
You  ought  to  take  more  exercise." 

He  took  her  hand  and  smiling  down  at  her  pressed 
it.  She  looked  at  him  with  her  somber  eyes,  large 


234  THE  PIONEER 

and  melancholy  in  their  darkened  sockets.  The  look 
was  tragic  and  with  alarm  he  attempted  to  draw  his 
hand  away.  But  she  held  it,  drew  it  against  her 
bosom,  and  bowed  her  face  on  his  arm. 

"Oh,  Jerry,"  she  almost  groaned,  "is  this  you  and 
I?" 

"Of  course,  dear,"  he  said  glibly,  patting  her  lightly 
on  the  shoulder  with  his  free  hand.  "You'll  be  all 
right  soon  if  you'll  take  more  exercise.  You're  just 
a  little  bit  inclined  to  the  lazy — all  you  Spanish  women 
are." 

She  made  no  answer  and  he  could  feel  her  body 
trembling. 

"Come,  Lupe,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  urgency  in 
his  voice,  "I  must  go,  my  dear  girl.  I've  got  some- 
thing to  do  at  half-past  four." 

"Are  you  going  to  Miss  Gracey's?"  she  said  "with- 
out moving  or  loosening  her  hold  of  his  hand. 

"Oh,  Lupe,  dear,"  he  answered  impatiently,  "don't 
let's  get  on  those  subjects  to-day.  I've  had  such  a 
nice  time  here  with  you  this  afternoon,  just  because 
you've  been  pleasant,  and  quiet  and  reasonable.  Now 
don't  spoil  it  all  by  beginning  to  fight  and  find  fault." 

She  raised  her  head  but  still  held  his  hand  pressed 
against  her  heart. 

"I'm  not  going  to  fight,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone, 
"my  fighting  days  are  over." 

"That's  the  most  sensible  thing  that  I've  heard  you 
say  for  a  long  time.  You've  just  worn  yourself  out 
by  the  way  you've  stormed  and  raged.  That's  why 
you've  felt  so  sick.  It  isn't  worth  while." 

"No,  I  suppose  not."     She  looked  up  at  him  with 


LUPE'S  CHAINS  ARE  BROKEN         235 

eyes  of  gloomy  tenderness,  and  opening  her  fingers 
one  by  one  let  him  draw  his  hand  away. 

"You're  going  to  Miss  Gracey's?"  she  said  again. 

He  averted  his  head  with  a  quick  movement  of  im- 
patience. 

"Please  tell  me,"  she  pleaded,  "I'm  not  bad  tem- 
pered to-day." 

"Well,  yes,  since  you  say  so,  I  am  going  there.  But 
there's  no  necessity  to  get  excited  about  it.  You 
know,  Lupe,  we've  known  each  other  a  long,  long 
time." 

He  paused,  furtively  watching  her,  on  the  alert  to 
fly  if  she  showed  the  symptoms  of  storm  he  knew  so 
well.  But  she  remained  passive,  almost  apathetic. 
The  thought  crossed  his  mind  that  she  must  have  been 
much  sicker  than  Newbury  had  imagined,  and  a  gust 
of  pity  for  her  stirred  in  him.  He  bent  down  and  kissed 
her  heavy  hair. 

"You  know,"  he  said  gently,  "when  years  roll  by 
as  they  have  with  us  changes  come.  But  we'll  al- 
ways be  friends,  won't  we,  Lupe?" 

"I  don't  know,"  'she  said,  "always  is  a  long  word. 
But  I'll  always  love  you.  That's  my  punishment  for 
my  sins." 

The  clock  chimed  the  half -hour  and  Jerry  patted 
her  again  on  the  shoulder.  It  was  as  bad  to  have 
Lupe  talk  of  her  sins  as  it  was  to  have  her  upbraid 
him  with  his. 

"I'll  see  you  again  soon,"  he  said  brightly,  "but  I 
must  fly  now.  Take  good  care  of  yourself.  Try  and 
be  more  cheerful  and  go  out  more.  Fresh  air's  the 
thing  for  you," 


236  THE  PIONEER 

When  he  had  put  on  his  coat  in  the  hall  he  ap- 
peared at  the  open  doorway  and  smiled  a  last  good- 
by  at  her.  She  was  sitting  in  the  arm-chair  in  the 
same  listless  attitude.  She  nodded  to  him  without 
smiling,  and  he  was  again  struck  by  her  unusual 
pallor  and  the  darkness  of  her  eyes. 

"She's  really  been  sick,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he 
ran  down  the  steps,  for  he  was  late.  "Poor  Lupe ! 
How  hard  she  takes  everything!" 

The  next  afternoon  he  was  summoned  from  his 
office  by  a  message  that  a  woman  wanted  to  see  him 
in  the  hall  outside.  He  went  out  wondering  and 
found  Pancha,  the  Mexican  servant  maid  who  had 
been  in  Mrs.  Newbury's  service  since  her  marriage 
and  was  in  the  secret  of  their  liaison.  After  the 
fashion  of  her  race  the  woman  wore  a  black  shawl 
over  her  head  in  place  of  a  hat,  and  her  face  between 
its  folds  was  drawn  and  pale.  In  a  few  broken  sen- 
tences she  told  him  that  her  mistress  was  desperately 
ill;  something  terrible  had  happened  to  her  in 
the  night.  It  was  hard  to  grasp  her  meaning,  for  she 
spoke  very  poor  English  and  Jerry  had  no  Spanish, 
but  he  learned  enough  to  know  that  Lupe  was  un- 
doubtedly in  a  serious  state.  With  the  assurance 
that  he  would  come  as  soon  as  he  could  he  sent  the 
woman  away  and  went  back  into  the  office. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  started  for  the  Newbury 
house.  He  was  alarmed  and  chilled.  He  could  not 
picture  Lupe — a  woman  of  superb  physique — stricken 
down  in  twenty-four  hours.  She  had  been  pale  and 
listless  but  otherwise  well  yesterday.  Pancha,  who 
was  not  used  to  sickness,  had  probably  been  fright- 


LUPE'S  CHAINS  ARE  BROKEN        237 

ened  and  had  exaggerated.  Thus  he  tried  to  lift  the 
weight  which  had  suddenly  fallen  on  his  heart.  He 
no  longer  loved  Lupe,  but  he  "did  not  want  anything 
to  happen  to  her,"  he  thought  to  himself  as  he  ap- 
proached the  door. 

Here  at  the  curb  he  saw  two  doctors'  buggies, 
and,  at  the  sight,  his  sense  of  alarm  increased.  There 
was  no  question  about  it;  something  serious  was  evi- 
dently the  matter. 

He  asked  for  Newbury  and  after  a  moment's  wait 
in  the  hall  saw  the  door  into  the  sitting-room  open 
and  that  gentleman  issue  forth,  closing  the  door  on 
a  murmur  of  male  voices.  Newbury  looked  an  aged 
man,  gray  and  haggard.  Without  any  greeting, 
evidently  too  distraught  by  sudden  calamity  to  won- 
der how  Jerry  had  heard  the  bad  news,  he  said  in  a 
low  voice: 

"They're  holding  a  consultation  in  there" — his 
sunken  eyes  dwelt  on  the  young  man's  and  he  shook 
his  head.  "No  hope,  none.  She  can't  possibly  get 
well.  They  don't  think  she'll  live  more  than  a  day 
or  two." 

"What — what — is  it?"  stammered  Jerry,  horror- 
stricken.  "What's  happened  to  her?" 

"A  paralytic  stroke.  She  had  it  early  in  the  even- 
ing. Pancha  found  her  lying  on  the  sofa  like  a  per- 
son resting,  but  she  was  paralyzed  and  couldn't  speak. 
That  was  what  the  headaches  meant  and  we  were 
such  fools  we  didn't  think  anything  of  them." 

"Is  she  conscious?  Does  she  know?"  Jerry  asked, 
not  knowing  what  to  say,  his  whole  being  flooded  with 
a  sense  of  repulsion  and  dread. 


238  THE  PIONEER 

"I  think  so  and  so  does  Pancha.  The  doctors 
don't.  She  can't  speak  or  move  but  her  eyes  look 
full  of  life  and  intelligence,  and  once  or  twice  she's 
tried  to  smile." 

A  soft  footfall  on  the  stairs  above  caught  their 
ears  and  they  looked  up.  The  Mexican  woman  was 
descending,  her  eyes  on  Jerry.  Newbury  cried  at  her 
in  Spanish,  his  voice  suddenly  hoarse  with  a  muffled 
agony  of  fear.  She  shook  her  head  and  answered 
in  the  same  language,  speaking  at  some  length.  New- 
bury translated : 

"She's  told  Lupe  that  you're  here  and  thinks  she 
wants  to  see  you.  She  says  she's  tried  to  speak,  and, 
as  far  as  she  can  follow,  she's  under  the  impression 
that  Lupe's  asked  for  you." 

It  was  a  hateful  suggestion  to  Jerry.  He  was 
shocked  enough  already  without  having  to  suffer  see- 
ing Lupe  in  this  unfamiliar  state.  He  detested  sad 
things  and  kept  them  out  of  his  life  with  the  utmost 
care.  But  Newbury  and  the  woman  were  watching 
him.  He  realized  that  they  both  expected  him  to  go. 
Deep  down  in  the  inner  places  of  his  soul  the  thought 
that  Lupe  could  not  speak  passed  with  a  vibration 
of  relief. 

They  followed  Pancha  up  the  softly  carpeted 
stairs  and  along  the  passage.  The  woman  passed 
through  a  doorway,  making  a  gesture  for  them  to 
wait,  then  put  her  head  out  and  beckoned  them  in. 

The  darkness  of  evening  had  fallen  and  the  large 
room  was  well-lighted.  By  the  bed  two  gas  jets, 
burning  under  ground-glass  globes,  threw  a  brilliant 
light  over  the  sick  woman.  She  was  lying  straight 


LUPE'S  CHAINS  ARE  BROKEN         239 

and  stark  on  her  back,  the  bed-clothes  smooth  over 
the  undulations  of  her  body  and  raised  into  points 
by  her  feet.  Spreading  over  the  pillow  beside  her, 
like  the  shadow  of  death  waiting  to  cover  her,  was 
her  hair,  a  black,  dense  mass,  crossing  the  bed  and 
falling  over  its  edge.  Her  face  was  as  white  as  the 
pillow,  her  eyes  staring  straight  before  her  with  a 
stern,  frowning  look.  A  stillness  reigned  in  the  room ; 
death  was  without  the  door  waiting  to  get  in. 

Newbury  went  toward  her.  Jerry  hung  back  gazing 
fearfully  at  her.  She  was  invested  with  a  strange, 
alien  terror,  a  being  half  initiated  into  awful  myste- 
ries. The  inflexible  sternness  of  her  face  did  not  soften 
as  her  husband  bent  over  her  and  said  gently: 

"Dearest,  Jerry  came  to  see  how  you  were.  He's 
here.  Would  you  like  to  see  him?" 

She  gave  a  low  sound,  undoubtedly  an  affirmative. 
Pancha,  who  was  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  enunciated 
a  quick  phrase  in  Spanish.  Newbury  stepped  aside 
and  beckoned  Jerry  forward.  As  her  lover  came 
within  her  line  of  vision  her  eyes  softened,  the  stiffen- 
ed lips  expanded  with  difficulty  into  a  slight  smile. 

"Of  course  she  knows  you,"  Newbury  said  in  a 
choked  whisper.  "Oh,  my  poor  Lupe !" 

His  voice  broke  and  he  turned  away  convulsed  and 
walked  to  the  window.  With  the  Mexican  woman 
watching  him  from  the  foot-board,  Jerry  bent  down 
and  kissed  her  very  softly  on  the  forehead  and  both 
eyes.  She  made  an  effort  to  lift  her  face  to  his  caress 
like  a  child,  and  as  he  drew  back  her  eyes  dwelt  on  his, 
full  of  the  somber  and  unquenchable  passion  that  had 
killed  her.  He  tried  to  speak  to  her  but  found  it  im- 


240  THE  PIONEER 

possible.  Memories  of  the  old  days  rushed  upon 
him — of  her  resistance  to  his  fiery  wooing,  of  the 
first  years  of  their  intimacy  and  the  tortures  of  her 
conscience  that  her  love  could  never  deaden,  and  now 
this  ending  amid  the  ruins  of  her  anguish  and  his 
hard  coldness. 

He  turned  and  groped  his  way  out  of  the  room. 
On  the  stairs  Newbury  joined  him,  touched  beyond 
measure  at  the  sight  of  his  grief.  With  assurances 
that  he  would  be  up  in  the  morning  to  inquire,  Jerry 
escaped  from  the  house  and  fled  into  the  night,  now 
dark  and  full  of  the  chill  of  fog. 

He  could  not  sleep,  and  in  the  morning  walked 
up  to  the  house  before  breakfast  for  news.  The  ser- 
vant at  the  door  told  him  that  Mrs.  Newbury  was 
dead,  having  passed  away  quietly  without  renewal 
of  consciousness  or  speech  as  the  day  was  dawning. 

Without  a  word  he  turned  from  the  door  and  walked 
down  the  street  to  where  a  car  line  crossed  it.  Stand- 
ing on  the  corner  waiting  for  the  car,  he  was  accosted 
by  a  boy  selling  the  morning  papers,  and  mechanically, 
without  consciousness  of  his  action,  he  bought  one. 

In  the  same  mazed  state  he  opened  it  and  looked 
at  the  front  page.  The  first  paragraph  that  met  his 
eye  was  an  announcement  that  the  rumored  strike 
of  a  great  ore-body  of  astounding  richness  in  the 
Cresta  Plata  was  confirmed.  The  excitement  in  Vir- 
ginia was  intense,  the  mine  being  regarded  as  second 
only  to  the  Con.  Virginia.  "This,"  concluded  the 
paragraph,  "will  raise  the  fortunes  of  the  Gracey  boys 
far  above  the  six  naught  mark,  well  up  on  the  list  of 
bonanza  millionaires." 


CHAPTER  XII 

A   MAN    AND   HIS   PRICE 

The  ball  given  by  Mrs.  Davenport,  to  introduce  to 
San  Francisco  society  the  fiancee  of  her  son  Stanley, 
was  long  remembered  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant  en- 
tertainments ever  given  in  California. 

The  exhilaration  of  prosperity  was  in  the  air.  Stocks 
were  mounting,  everybody  was  making  money.  More 
new  dresses  were  ordered  for  Mrs.  Davenport's  ball 
than  ever  before  for  any  one  function.  The  jewelers 
were  selling  diamonds  to  men  and  women  who  five 
years  before  had  lived  in  two-room  cabins  and  worn 
overalls  and  calicos.  Black  Dan  Gracey  had  come 
down  from  Virginia  to  see  his  daughter  and  bought 
her  a  diamond  tiara  which  it  was  said  eclipsed  any- 
thing of  the  kind  ever  sold  in  San  Francisco  or  even 
New  York.  The  bonanza  times  were  beginning, 
and  the  fiery  wine  of  life  they  distilled  mounting  to  the 
heads  of  men. 

To  Rosamund's  surprise  June  announced  her  inten- 
tion of  going  to  the  ball.  She  had  gone  out  little 
lately,  since  the  death  of  Mrs.  Newbury,  now  six 
weeks  past,  not  at  all.  Every  evening  she  had  sat  in 
the  parlor  in  Folsom  Street,  waiting.  But  the  visitor 
she  expected  never  came.  It  was  typical  of  her  in- 
241 


242  THE  PIONEER 

eradicable  optimism  that  she  should  still  have  expected 
him.  Rosamund  had  heard  and  seen  enough  to  feel 
certain  that  he  would  never  come,  that  every  leisure 
hour  he  had  was  spent  with  the  daughter  of  Black 
Dan  Gracey.  All  Mercedes'  other  charms  were  now 
enhanced  by  the  luster  of  great  wealth,  and  the  Col- 
onel had  told  Rosamund  that  Jerry's  business  was 
practically  nil,  his  private  fortune  gone.  It  was  nec- 
essary to  say  no  more. 

June  dressed  herself  for  the  ball  that  night  as  for 
a  crisis.  She  had  ordered  a  new  gown,  and  sheathed 
in  its  glimmering  whiteness,  with  filmy  skirts  falling 
from  her  hips  to  the  floor  in  vaporous  layers,  was  an 
ethereally  fairy-like  figure.  Like  many  women  who  are 
not  handsome  but  possess  a  delicate  charm  of  appear- 
ance, she  varied  singularly  in  looks.  To-night  the 
evanescent  beauty,  that  was  now  and  then  hers,  re- 
visited her.  She  was  not  the  blushing,  soft-eyed  girl 
that  Barclay  had  kissed  in  the  woods  at  San  Mateo, 
but  a  graceful  woman  in  whose  fragile  elegance  there 
was  something  spiritual  and  poetic.  She  noticed  her 
pallor  and  accentuated  it  with  powder,  rubbing  it 
along  her  shoulders  till  they  looked  like  marble.  In 
all  this  luminous  whiteness  of  skin  and  raiment  her 
lips  were  unusually  red,  her  eyes  dark  and  brilliant. 
She  scrutinized  herself  in  the  mirror,  drew  down  ten- 
drils of  hair  from  the  coil  that  now  crowned  her 
head,  studied  her  profile  and  coiffure  in  the  hand 
glass  and  tried  different  jeweled  pendants  round  her 
neck.  She  was  like  a  general  before  battle  who  re- 
views his  resources  and  tries  to  display  them  to  the 
best  advantage. 


A  MAN  AND  HIS  PRICE  243 

Owing  to  a  delay  in  the  arrival  of  the  carriage  they 
were  late.  It  was  half-past  ten — an  unwonted  hour 
for  those  days — when  they  entered  the  house.  At  its 
wide-flung  portals  currents  of  revelry  and  joy  seemed 
to  meet  them.  There  was  the  suggestion  of  festival 
in  the  air;  the  rhythm  of  dance  music  swelled  and 
faded  over  the  hum  of  voices.  Room  opened  from 
room  with  glimpses  of  polished  floors  between  long 
trains,  reflections  of  bare  shoulders  in  mirrors,  gleams 
of  diamonds,  sharp  and  sudden  under  the  even  flood 
of  light  from  the  chandeliers.  Over  all  hung  the  per- 
fume of  flowers,  great  masses  of  which  stood  banked 
in  corners,  or  hung  in  thick  festoons  along  the  walls. 

The  Colonel  escorted  his  charges  to  the  end  of  the 
drawing-room  where  Stanley  Davenport's  fiancee 
stood  beside  the  hostess  receiving  guests  and  congrat- 
ulations. Their  few  sentences  of  greeting  accom- 
plished, they  moved  aside  toward  the  wide  door  of 
entrance.  From  this  vantage  point  their  eyes  were 
instantly  attracted  by  the  figure  of  Mercedes  Gracey 
surrounded  by  a  little  group  of  admirers. 

In  the  full  panoply  of  ball  dress  the  young 
woman  was  truly  magnificent.  Black  Dan's  last  gift 
was  a  fitting  crown  for  such  a  head.  She  was  pro- 
fusely be  jeweled,  exceedingly  bare  as  to  neck  and 
shoulders,  and  robed  in  a  sparkling  splendor  of  lace 
traced  out  and  weighted  with  silver  which  looked 
like  a  symbolic  incarnation  of  the  riches  she  repre- 
sented. She  was  brilliantly  animated,  turning  her 
head  this  way  and  that  as  the  members  of  the  little 
court  pressed  on  her  notice.  Rosamund,  who  was 
very  quick  to  notice  significant  details,  was  struck 


244  THE  PIONEER 

by  the  fact  that  there  were  nearly  as  many  women 
as  men  about  her. 

She  was  about  to  mention  this  to  June,  when  the 
various  young  men,  who  had  detached  themselves  from 
other  groups  at  the  appearance  of  the  Misses  Allen, 
bore  down  upon  them,  fluttering  programs.  A 
wall  of  black  coats  formed  about  the  girls,  and  the 
Colonel,  seeing  the  intricate  rites  of  program  com- 
paring fairly  inaugurated,  backed  away  from  them 
and  leaned  against  the  door  frame,  idly  surveying  the 
scene. 

A  hand  on  his  shoulder  made  him  start  and  turn, 
and  then  break  into  the  broad  smile  of  fellowship  he 
reserved  for  just  a  few  people. 

"Rion,  old  son!"  he  exclaimed  grasping  the  hand 
of  his  friend,  "what  brings  you  here,  floundering 
round  among  all  these  trains  and  frills?" 

The  other  laughed.  He  had  not  been  in  San  Fran- 
cisco for  nearly  a  year.  He  was  a  little  leaner,  harder 
and  tougher  than  he  had  been  on  his  last  visit,  when 
the  Colonel  had  only  seen  him  once  or  twice  and  he 
had  refused  an  invitation  to  dine  in  Folsom  Street. 

"I'm  down  to  escort  my  niece.  Dan  couldn't  come, 
so  I  was  offered  up.  Mercedes  had  a  notion  she  had 
to  have  the  males  of  her  family  grouped  round  her 
to-night  and  telegraphed  up  for  one  of  us.  Dan  would 
rather  shut  down  the  Cresta  Plata  than  disappoint 
her,  so  as  he  couldn't  come  I  had  to." 

"You're  being  broken  in  early.  At  my  age  it's 
about  all  a  fellow's  good  for.  I  take  the  girls  wherever 
they  go,  and  what's  more,  I  enjoy  it.  Have  you  seen 
them  yet?" 


A  MAN  AND  HIS  PRICE  245 

He  indicated  the  white-robed  figures  of  June  and 
Rosamund  in  front  of  him.  Rion  nodded.  Before  he 
had  spoken  to  the  Colonel  he  had  stood  just  behind 
him  watching  June.  Her  back  was  toward  him  but 
as  she  turned  he  caught  glimpses  of  her  profile.  He 
had  not  dared  to  speak  to  her.  His  stop  with  the  Colo- 
nel was  a  half-way  halt,  a  pause  to  gain  courage, 
cheered  by  a  hope  that  the  older  man  might  break  the 
ice  of  their  meeting. 

"How  are  they?"  he  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone, 
while  his  heart  pounded  with  mingled  hope  and  dread 
of  June's  turning  and  seeing  him. 

"Well,  very  well,"  said  the  other  briskly.  "Rosa- 
mund's a  perfect  picture  of  health  and  happiness. 
And  June — well,  perhaps  she's  a  little  thin  and  not 
quite  up  to  her  usual  spirits.  But  she  looks  very 
pretty  to-night." 

He  waited  to  see  what  Rion  would  say  to  this.  The 
Colonel  had  wondered  of  late  if  his  friend  had  heard 
any  gossip  of  June  and  Barclay.  He  knew  the  mining 
man  led  a  simple  life  of  engrossing  work  among  men, 
far  from  the  circles  where  the  meaner  spirits  of  the 
world  seek  to  unveil  the  hidden  wounds  of  their  fel- 
lows. Rion's  answer  struck  upon  his  complacency 
with  an  impact  of  disturbing  surprise.- 

"Do  you  know  if  Barclay's  here  yet?  Have  you 
seen  him  ?  Mercedes  sent  me  to  find  out  if  he'd  come 
He  said  he'd  be  late,  and  she  seems  to  think  it's  about 
time  for  him  to  illuminate  the  place  by  his  presence. 
But  I  can't  find  him." 

"Barclay!"  exclaimed  the  older  man  in  a  disgusted 
tone.  "What's  Mercedes  want  with  him?  A  hand- 


246  THE  PIONEER 

some  girl  like  that  oughtn't  to  bother  her  head  about  a 
skunk  like  Barclay." 

"Go  slow,  Jim,  go  slow  now,"  said  Rion,  laughing ; 
and  placing  his  big  hand  on  the  Colonel's  shoulder 
he  pressed  it  hard.  "Mustn't  talk  that  way  to  me 
about  Jerry  any  more.  He's  going  to  become  a  mem- 
ber of  the  family.  He  and  Mercedes  are  engaged. 
It's  announced  to-night.  That's  why  I'm  here.  That's 
why  Mercedes  wanted  the  men  of  the  family  to  rally 
round  her,  and  lend  the  weight  of  their  approval  to 
something  they  don't  approve  of  at  all." 

For  the  first  moment  the  Colonel  was  too  staggered 
to  speak.  He  had  expected  it — as  Rosamund  had — 
but  not  so  soon,  not  so  indecently  soon.  His  mind 
leaped  forward  to  the  certainty  of  June's  hearing  it 
suddenly  from  a  partner  and  something  distressing 
happening. 

"Stay  here,  Rion,  for  a  moment,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  want  to  speak  to  Rosamund." 

Even  as  he  stepped  forward,  Rosamund,  a  few 
yards  in  front  of  them,  wheeled  suddenly  from  the  two 
men  before  her,  and  came  toward  him.  One  glance 
at  her  face  told  him  that  she  too  had  heard, 
v  "Uncle  Jim,"  she  whispered,  as  they  came  together 
and  she  made  a  desperate  clutch  at  him,  "quick! 
something  dreadful's  happened.  Mercedes  and  Jerry 
are  engaged  and  it's  announced  to-night.  Everybody's 
talking  of  it.  Jack  Griscom's  just  told  me.  What'll 
we  do?  June  may  hear  it  at  any  moment.  We've 
got  to  get  her  away  before  she  does." 

June    stood    just    beyond    them.     Breaking    into 


A  MAN  AND  HIS  PRICE  247 

Rosamund's  last  words  came  the  little  blow  of  her  fan 
striking  the  floor.  Her  program  fluttered  down  be- 
side it. 

"Why,  Miss  Allen,"  said  her  companion,  a  youth 
who  had  been  the  first  to  impart  the  news  of  the  even- 
ing, "what  is  it?  You're  dropping  everything." 

As  he  bent  on  his  knees  to  pick  up  the  fallen  prop- 
erties, the  Colonel  roughly  pushed  him  aside.  June's 
stricken  face  appalled  him.  He  drew  one  of  her  hands 
through  his  arm,  and  said  in  a  low  authoritative  voice : 

"Come.  We're  going  home.  Walk  to  the  door 
and  I'll  get  the  carriage  in  a  minute." 

She  made  an  effort  and  turning  moved  toward  the 
door.  In  the  passing  in  and  out  of  laughing  people, 
flushed  with  exercise  and  pleasure,  no  one  noticed 
her  except  Rion,  who  suddenly  saw  her  approach  and 
sweep  by,  her  eyes  staring  before  her,  her  face  set  like 
a  stone.  Rosamund  had  taken  the  fan  and  program 
from  the  astonished  boy,  and  with  a  rapid  sentence  to 
the  effect  that  her  sister  felt  faint,  followed  them. 
Rion  dared  to  touch  her  arm  as  she  passed  through 
the  doorway. 

"What's  the  matter  with  June?"  he  said  bruskly. 
"She  looks  as  if  she  were  dying." 

"She's  sick.  She — she — feels  faint.  It's — it's — a 
sort  of  an  attack." 

She  hurried  on  down  the  long  flagged  hall,  at  one 
side  of  which  was  the  dressing-room.  Rion  followed 
and  saw  the  three  enter  it.  He  stood  outside,  irreso- 
lute, not  liking  to  look  in  through  the  open  doorway 
and  unable  to  go  away.  Presently  the  Colonel  emerged, 


248  THE  PIONEER 

saw  him,  and  hurrying  toward  him,  said  in  quick, 
low-toned  urgency: 

"You're  just  the  man  I  want.  June's  sick.  I'm 
going  to  get  the  carriage  and  I  don't  want  any  of  these 
fools  of  people  round  here  to  see  her.  You  bring  her 
down  as  soon  as  she's  ready." 

"What's  the  matter  with  her?"  Rion  asked  again. 
"Is  it  serious?" 

"It's — it's — the  heart,"  said  the  Colonel,  bent  on 
shielding  his  darling  even  to  her  lover  and  his  own 
friend.  "She's — she's — had  attacks  before.  Yes,  it's 
damned  serious." 

He  was  gone  with  the  words,  and  Rion,  standing 
by  the  dressing-room  door,  looked  in  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  June  standing  between  Rosamund,  who 
was  fastening  her  cloak,  and  a  white-capped  negress 
who  was  draping  a  lace  scarf  over  her  head.  She 
looked  like  a  sleep-walker,  wide-eyed  and  pallid  un- 
der their  arranging  hands.  He  did  not  move  away 
this  time,  but  instead  walked  to  the  door  and  said 
to  Rosamund: 

"The  Colonel  wants  me  to  take  you  to  the  car- 
riage." 

As  they  moved  toward  him  he  entered,  drew  June's 
hand  inside  his  arm  and  walked  down  the  hall  to  the 
door.  There  were  several  short  flights  of  marble  steps 
leading  from  the  porch  to  the  street.  When  he  came 
to  these  he  threw  her  cloak  aside,  pushing  it  out  of 
his  way,  put  his  arm  around  her  and  half  carried  her 
down.  Her  body  in  the  grasp  of  his  arm  seemed  piti- 
fully small  and  frail.  She  said  nothing,  but  he  felt 
that  she  trembled  like  a  person  in  a  chill. 


A  MAN  AND  HIS  PRICE  249 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  the  carriage  stood,  the  Col- 
onel at  the  door.  The  hour  was  an  auspicious  one 
for  an  unseen  exit.  It  was  too  late  for  the  most  dila- 
tory guest  to  be  arriving,  and  too  early  for  the  most 
unfestal  to  be  leaving.  The  street  was  devoid  of  pe- 
destrians and  vehicles,  and  lit  by  the  diminishing 
dots  of  lamps  and  the  gushes  of  light  from  the  illum- 
inated house,  presented  a  vista  of  echoing  desertion. 

The  Colonel  opened  the  carriage  door,  helped 
Rosamund  in  first  and  lifted  June  in  after  her. 
He  was  standing  with  the  handle  in  his  hand  when 
a  footstep  he  had  vaguely  heard  advancing  through 
the  silence  struck  loud  on  his  ear.  He  turned  quickly 
and  saw  a  man  come  into  view  from  the  angle  of 
the  side  street,  walk  rapidly  toward  the  house,  and 
then  stop  with  that  air  of  alertly  poised  hesitancy 
which  suggests  a  suddenly  caught  and  concentrated 
attention.  The  object  of  this  attention  was  the  Colo- 
nel's figure,  and  as  the  new-comer  stood  in  that  one 
arrested  moment  of  motionless  scrutiny,  the  Colonel 
saw  by  the  light  of  an  adjacent  lamp  that  it  was  Jerry 
Barclay.  They  recognized  each  other,  and  the  ad- 
vancing man  drew  back  quickly  into  the  shadow  of 
the  house. 

"Rion,"  said  the  Colonel,  turning  to  his  friend, 
"would  you  mind  taking  the  girls  home?  I've  just  re- 
membered something  I  have  to  do  that  will  detain  me 
for  a  few  minutes.  I'll  go  round  the  other  way  and 
be  at  Folsom  Street  almost  as  soon  as  you  are." 

He  waited  to  see  Rion  enter  and  then  slammed 
the  door  on  him,  and  drew  back  from  the  curb. 

As  the  carriage  disappeared  around  the  corner  he 


250  THE  PIONEER 

walked  forward  to  the  spot  where  Jerry  was  con- 
cealed. He  could  see  his  figure  pressed  back  against 
the  fence,  faintly  discernible  as  a  darker  bulk  amid 
the  darkness  about  it,  a  pale  line  of  shirt  bosom 
showing  between  the  straight  blackness  of  the  loosen- 
ed coat  fronts. 

"I  knew  that  was  you,  Jerry,"  he  said.  "It's  no 
good  hiding." 

Jerry  stepped  forward  into  the  light  of  the  lamp. 
He  was  enraged  and  chagrined  at  the  encounter. 

"Hiding?"  he  exclaimed  haughtily.  "Why  should 
I  be  hiding?" 

The  Colonel  came  close  to  him  and  said  with  low- 
toned  emphasis: 

"Because  you're  a  liar  and  a  coward,  Jerry  Barclay ; 
and  you  were  afraid  to  meet  me." 

Jerry  drew  back  crying  with  amazed  rage: 

"Colonel  Parrish!" 

"And  you  tried  to  hide  from  me  to-night  when  I 
know  what  you  are  and  what  you've  done.  You  scrub 

_yOU—"  < 

Barclay  hit  furiously  at  him,  but  the  older  man 
evaded  the  blow,  and  seizing  him  by  the  loosened 
fronts  of  his  coat,  with  his  open  hand  struck  him  on 
both  sides  of  the  face  and  then  flung  him  against 
the  fence.  He  squared  himself  to  meet  an  onslaught 
but  Jerry  struck  heavily  and  fell,  a  dark,  sprawling 
mass  on  the  sidewalk.  The  oath  that  he  shouted  as 
he  reeled  back  was  bitten  in  two  by  an  ejaculation 
of  pain  and  he  lay  motionless,  groaning  in  the  dark. 

"Stay  there  and  howl,"  said  the  Colonel.  "If  I 
stayed  another  moment  I'd  kick  you  as  you  lie." 


A  MAN  AND  HIS  PRICE  251 

And  he  turned  and  ran  down  the  street.  The  rattle 
of  a  carriage  struck  his  ear  and  a  coupe  turned  the 
corner,  its  lamps  glaring  like  two  round  yellow  eyes. 
He  hailed  it,  thrust  a  handful  of  silver  into  the  driver's 
hand,  and  gave  him  the  Allen  address  on  Folsom 
Street. 

As  the  carriage  rattled  across  town  he  lay  back, 
his  blood  singing  in  his  ears,  his  heart  racked  with 
rage  and  pain.  He  had  done  no  good,  probably  been 
very  foolish.  But  as  June's  face  rose  on  his  memory, 
he  wished  he  had  hit  harder,  and  the  recollection  of 
Jerry  groaning  against  the  fence  soothed  his  pain. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  BREAKING  POINT 

In  the  middle  of  the  December  afternoon  the  Col- 
onel had  come  in  early  to  his  rooms  to  change  his 
coat  and  brush  up  a  bit.  He  was  going  to  call  on  the 
wife  of  a  pioneer  friend  who  had  just  returned  from 
Europe.  The  Colonel  was  punctilious  and  called  in 
a  black  coat,  which  he  now  stood  brushing  beside  the 
window  and  anxiously  surveying,  for  he  had  been  a 
man  who  was  careful  of  his  dress,  and  the  coat  looked 
shiny. 

It  was  a  chill  gray  day  and  he  looped  back  the  lace 
curtains  to  see  better.  Outside,  the  fog  was  beginning 
to  send  in  long  advancing  wisps  which  projected  a 
cold  breath  into  the  warmest  corners  of  the  city.  A 
mental  picture  rose  on  his  mind  of  the  sand  dunes 
far  out  with  the  fleecy  curls  and  clouds  sifting  noise- 
lessly over  them.  The  vision  was  not  cheering  and  he 
put  it  out  of  his  mind,  and  in  order  to  enliven  his 
spirits,  which  were  low,  he  whistled  softly  as  he 
brushed. 

The  room — the  bare  hotel  parlor  of  that  kind  of 

suite  which  has  a  small  windowless  bedroom  behind 

it — looked  out  on  the  life  of  one  of  the  down-town 

streets.    The  Traveler's  Hotel  had  not  yet  quite  fallen 

252 


THE  BREAKING  POINT  253 

from  grace,  though  the  days  of  its  prosperous  prime 
were  past.  On  the  block  opposite  it  a  few  old  sheds 
of  wood  and  corrugated  iron  (relics  of  the  early 
fifties)  toppled  against  one  another  and  sheltered  a 
swarming  vagabond  life.  The  hotel  itself  still  pre- 
served its  dignity.  The  shops  on  its  ground  floor 
were  respectable  and  clean.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
Spanish  and  Italian  spoken  in  them,  which  seemed  to 
accord  with  their  pink  and  blue  door-frames,  the 
Madeira  vines  growing  in  their  windows,  and  the  smell 
of  garlic  that  they  exhaled  at  midday. 

The  Colonel  was  giving  the  coat  a  last  inspection 
when  a  knock  made  him  start.  His  visitors  were 
few,  and  his  eyes  were  expectantly  fixed  on  the  door 
when  in  answer  to  his  "come  in"  it  slowly  opened. 
A  whiff  of  perfume  and  a  rustle  of  silks  heralded  the 
entrance  of  June,  who  stood  somewhat  timidly  on  the 
threshold  looking  in. 

"Jtmie!"  cried  the  Colonel  in  delighted  surprise. 
"My  girl  come  to  see  the  old  man  in  his  lair!" 

And  he  took  her  by  the  hand  and  drew  her  in,  kiss- 
ing her  as  he  shut  the  door,  and  rolling  up  his  best 
arm-chair. 

She  did  not  sit  down  at  once  and  he  said,  still 
holding  her  hand  by  the  tips  of  the  fingers  and  look- 
ing her  over  admiringly: 

"Well,  aren't  you  a  beautiful  sight!  And  just  the 
best  girl  in  the  world  to  come  down  here  and  see 
me." 

She  smiled  faintly  and  answered: 

"Wasn't  I  lucky  to  find  you?  I've  been  coming  for 
some  days  only — only — "  she  sat  down  on  the  arm 


254  THE  PIONEER 

of  the  chair,  prodding  at  the  carpet  with  the  end  of 
her  umbrella  and  looking  down. 

"Only  you  had  so  many  other  things  to  do,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"No,  not  that,"  still  looking  down  at  the  tip  of 
the  umbrella.  "Only  I  think  I  hadn't  quite  enough 
courage." 

She  rose  from  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  walked 
to  the  window.  As  she  moved  the  rustle  of  her  rich 
dress  and  the  perfume  it  exhaled  filled  the  room.  The 
Colonel  looked  at  her  uneasily.  It  was  three  weeks 
since  the  Davenport  ball.  She  had  kept  her  room 
for  some  days  after  the  ball,  saying  she  was  sick. 
After  that  she  had  appeared,  looking  miserably  ill, 
and  in  manner  cold  and  uncommunicative.  She  had 
spoken  of  Jerry's  engagement  to  no  one,  not  even  to 
Rosamund.  To  the  Colonel  she  had  been  gentle, 
quiet,  and  for  the  first  time  in  their  acquaintance  in- 
different and  unresponsive.  What  her  appearance 
this  afternoon  portended  he  could  not  guess. 

"Not  enough  courage!"  he  now  repeated.  "Was 
there  ever  any  time  since  I've  known  you  when  you 
wanted  courage  to  come  to  me?" 

"Never  before,"  she  answered,  standing  with  her 
back  to  him  looking  out  of  the  window. 

Her  voice,  her  attitude,  her  profile  against  the  pane, 
were  expressive  of  the  completest  dejection.  She 
was  expensively  and  beautifully  dressed  in  a  crisp 
silken  gown  of  several  shades  of  blue.  Every  detail 
of  her  appearance  was  elegant  and  fastidious.  In  her 
years  of  city  life  she  had  developed  all  the  extrava- 
gance, the  studious  consideration  of  her  raiment,  of 


THE  BREAKING  POINT  255 

a  fashionable  woman.  Now  her  costly  dress,  the  jew- 
eled ornaments  she  wore,  her  gloves,  her  hat  with  its 
long  blue  feather  that  rested  on  her  bright-colored 
hair,  the  tip  of  the  shoe  that  peeped  from  her  skirt, 
combined  to  make  her  a  figure  of  notable  feminine 
finish  and  distinction.  And  surrounded  by  this  elab- 
oration of  careful  daintiness,  her  heaviness  of  spirit 
seemed  thrown  up  into  higher  relief. 

"Come,  sit  down,"  said  the  Colonel,  rolling  the  chair 
toward  her.  "I  can't  talk  comfortably  to  you  when 
you  stand  there  with  your  back  to  me  looking  out  of 
the  window  as  if  we'd  been  quarreling." 

She  returned  to  the  chair  and  obediently  sank  into 
it.  Her  hands  hung  over  its  arms,  one  of  them  lan- 
guidly holding  the  umbrella.  He  had  thought  his 
suggestion  about  quarreling  would  make  her  laugh, 
but  she  did  not  seem  to  have  heard  it. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  drawing  a  chair  up  beside  her, 
"let's  hear  what  it  is  you  hadn't  the  courage  to  tell 
to  your  Uncle  Jim?  Have  you  been  robbing  or  mur- 
dering, or  what?" 

"I've  been  staying  in  the  house  mostly,  looking  out 
of  the  window.  I — don't  feel  much  like  going  out. 
I — oh,  Uncle  Jim,"  she  said,  suddenly  turning  her 
head  as  it  rested  on  the  chair-back  and  letting  her 
eyes  dwell  on  his,  "I've  been  so  miserable!" 

He  leaned  forward  and  took  her  hand.  He  had  noth- 
ing to  say.  Her  words  needed  no  further  commentary 
than  that  furnished  by  her  appearance.  With  the 
afternoon  light  shining  on  her  face,  she  looked  a  wo- 
man of  thirty,  worn  and  thin.  All  the  freshness  of 
the  young  girl  was  gone. 


256  THE  PIONEER 

"That's  what  I've  come  to  talk  about,"  she  said. 
"I  don't  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  could  live  here  any 
longer,  as  if  I  could  breathe  here.  I  hate  to  go 
out.  I  hate  to  meet  people.  Every  corner  I  turn 
I'm  afraid  that  I  may  meet  them — and — and — then — " 
her  voice  suddenly  became  hoarse  and  she  sat  up  and 
cleared  her  throat. 

For  a  moment  a  heavy  silence  held  the  room.  The 
Colonel  broke  it. 

"How  would  you  like  to  go  up  to  Foleys  for 
a  while?"  he  suggested.  "Your  father  was  telling  me 
the  other  day  that  the  superintendent  of  the  Barranca 
had  a  nice  little  house  and  a  very  decent  sort  of  wife. 
You  could  stay  there.  It  would  be  a  change." 

"Foleys  1"  she  echoed.  "Oh,  not  Foleys !  It's  too 
full  of  the  past  before  anything  had  happened.  No,  I 
want  to  go  away,  far  away,  away  from  everything. 
That's  what  I  came  to  talk  about.  I  want  to  go  to 
Europe." 

"Europe !"  he  exclaimed  blankly.  "But — but — you'd 
be  gone  for  months." 

"Yes,  that's  just  it.  That's  what  I  want— to  be 
gone  for  months,  for  years  even.  I  want  to  get  away 
from  San  Francisco  and  California  and  everything  I 
know  here." 

The  Colonel  was  silent.  He  felt  suddenly  depressed 
and  chilled.  San  Francisco  without  June!  His  life 
without  June!  The  mean  little  room  with  its  hideous 
wall  paper  and  cheap  furniture  came  upon  him  with 
its  true  dreary  strangeness.  The  city  outside  grew 
suddenly  a  hollow  place  of  wind  and  fog.  Life,  that 


THE  BREAKING  POINT  257 

was  always  so  full  for  him,  grew  blank  with  a  sense 
of  cold,  nostalgic  emptiness.  He  had  never  realized 
before  how  she  illumined  every  corner  of  it. 

"Well,  dearie,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  cheerfully — 
"that  sounds  a  big  undertaking;  sort  of  thing  you 
don't  settle  up  all  in  a  minute.  You  couldn't  go  alone 
and  Rosamund  couldn't  go  with  you." 

"I  know  all  that.  I've  thought  it  all  out.  I  haven't 
slept  well  lately  and  I  arranged  it  when  I  was  awake 
at  night.  I  could  take  some  one  with  me,  a  sort  of 
companion  person.  And  then  when  Rosamund  got 
married  and  came  over  there  with  Lionel,  why,  then 
I  could  stay  with  them.  Perhaps  I  could  live  with 
them  for  a  while.  He  has  such  a  big  house." 

She  paused,  evidently  waiting  to  see  how  the  Col- 
onel would  take  her  suggestions. 

"That's  all  possible  enough,"  he  said, — "but — well, 
there's  your  father.  How  about  him?" 

"Oh,  my  father!"  the  note  of  scorn  in  her  voice 
was  supplemented  by  a  side  look  at  him  which  showed 
she  had  no  further  illusions  as  to  her  father.  "My 
father  can  get  on  very  well  without  me." 

Even  if  she  had  come  to  know  Allen  at  his  just 
worth,  the  hardness  of  her  tone  hurt  the  Colonel.  It 
showed  him  how  deep  had  been  the  change  in  her 
in  the  last  three  years.  . 

"It's  hard  on  him  just  the  same,"  he  said,  "to  lose 
his  two  daughters  at  once." 

"Parents  have  to  lose  their  children,"  she  answered 
in  the  same  tone.  "Suppose  I'd  married  a  foreigner 
like  Rosamund?" 


258  THE  PIONEER 

The  Colonel  did  not  answer.  Suddenly  she  laid  the 
hand  near  him  on  his. 

"There's  only  you  and  Rosamund,"  she  said.  "And 
now  Rosamund's  going  too." 

"It's — it's — pretty  hard  even  to  think  of,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"But,  Uncle  Jim,"  she  urged  in  the  egotism  of  her 
pain,  blind  to  all  else,  "I  can't  stay  here.  It's  too 
much.  You  must  guess  how  I  feel." 

"I  can  guess,"  he  answered,  nodding. 

"I  can't  bear  it.  I  can't  stand  it.  If  I  could  die  it 
would  be  all  right,  but  I  can't  even  die.  I've  got 
to  go  on  living,  and  if  I  stay  here  I've  got  to  go  on 
hearing  everybody  talking  about  them  and  saying  how 
happy  they  are.  Every  time  I  go  out  I  run  the  risk 
of  meeting  them,  of  seeing  them  together,  with  Jerry 
looking  at  her  the  way  he  used  to  look  at  me." 

She  spoke  quietly,  staring  at  the  window  before 
her  with  steady  eyes. 

"June,"  he  said  almost  roughly,  "I  want  to  talk 
sensibly  to  you.  All  the  traveling  in  Europe  won't 
make  you  feel  better  if  you  don't  make  an  effort  to 
shake  yourself  free  of  all  this.  Now  listen — Barclay's 
shown  you  what  he  is.  He's  a  blackguard.  I  told 
it  to  you  three  years  ago,  and  you  know  it  now  by 
your  own  experience.  Why  do  you  love  him?  Why 
do  you  go  on  caring  for  a  dog  like  that?  I — I — upon 
my  word,  dearest,  if  it  was  any  girl  but  you  I'd  be 
ashamed  of  her." 

"You  don't  love  a  man  because  he's  good,  or  no- 
ble, or  any  of  those  things.  It's  not  a  thing  you  reason 
about.  It's  something  that  steals  into  you  and  takes 


THE  BREAKING  POINT  259 

possession  of  you.  I  know  what  Jerry  is.  I  suppose 
it's  all  true  what  you  say.  He  may  be  different  from 
what  I  thought  he  was.  He  may  be  cruel  and  unkind 
to  me.  But  that  won't  make  me  change." 

"But  good  God,  he's  treated  you  like  a  dog — 
thrown  you  over  for  a  girl  with  money,  made  sur- 
reptitious love  to  you  when  he  was  bound  to  a  woman 
he'd  ruined  and  whose  husband  was  his  friend! 
Heavens,  June,  you  can't  love  a  dirty  scrub  like  that ! 
You're  a  good  girl — honest  and  high-minded — you 
can't  go  on  caring  for  him  when  you  see  now  what  he 
is!" 

"Oh,  Uncle  Jim,  dear,  you  can't  change  me  by 
talking  that  way.  Women  don't  love  men  with  their 
reason,  they  love  them  with  their  hearts.  The  Jerry 
that  I  know  is  not  the  Jerry  that  you  know.  There 
are  two,  and  they're  quite  different.  The  Jerry  that 
I  know  and  used  to  meet  in  the  plaza  on  Turk  Street, 
was  always  kind  and  sweet  to  me,  and  I  used  to  be 
so  happy  when  I  was  with  him !  I  know  now  they're 
both  true.  I  guess  yours  is  as  true  as  mine.  But 
even  if  it  is,  I  care  just  the  same.  There's  no  arguing 
or  convincing — only  just  that  fact." 

"After  he's  made  a  public  show  of  you  and  engaged 
himself  to  Mercedes  not  two  months  after  Mrs.  New- 
bury's  death?  Such  a  dirty  record!  Such  a  mean, 
cold-blooded,  calculating  cur!  Oh,  June,  where's 
your  pride?" 

"Dead,"  she  said  bitterly,  "dead  long  ago." 

She  suddenly  sat  upright,  turned  on  him,  and  spoke 
with  somber  vehemence: 

"There's  no  pride,  there's  no  question  of  yourself — 


260  THE  PIONEER 

sometimes  I  think  there's  no  honor,  with  a  girl  who 
feels  for  a  man  as  I  do  for  him.  I  know  him  now, 
all  about  him.  I  know  in  my  heart  that  he's  what  you 
say.  I  think  sometimes,  deep  down  under  everything, 
I  have  a  feeling  for  him  that  is  almost  contempt.  But 
I'm  his  while  he's  alive  and  I  am.  I  can't  any  more 
change  that  than  I  can  make  myself  taller  or  shorter. 
If  I'd  known  in  the  beginning  what  I  do  now  it  would 
have  all  been  different.  It's  too  late  now  to  ask  me 
where  my  pride  is,  and  why  I  don't  tear  myself  free 
from  such  a  bondage.  It's  spoiled  my  life.  It's  bro- 
ken my  heart.  Sometimes  I  wish  Jerry  was  dead,  be- 
cause then  I  know  I'd  be  myself  again." 

He  looked  at  her  horrified.  Pallid  and  shrunken  in 
her  rich  clothes,  eaten  into  by  the  passion  that  now, 
for  the  first  time,  he  heard  her  confess,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  she  could  not  be  the  girl  he  had  met  at  Foleys 
three  and  a  half  years  ago.  To  his  strong,  self-deny- 
ing nature,  her  weakness  was  terrible.  He  did  not 
know  that  that  weakness  was  one  of  the  attributes 
which  made  her  so  lovable. 

"I  dare  say  there's  something  bad  about  me,"  she 
went  on.  "I  can  see  that  other  people  don't  feel  this 
way.  I  know  Rosamund  wouldn't.  If  Lionel  had 
not  really  cared  for  her  and  asked  her  to  marry  him 
she  would  have  gone  to  work  and  just  uprooted  him 
from  her  mind  like  a  weed  in  a  garden.  She  wouldn't 
have  let  things  that  weren't  right  get  such  a  hold  on 
her.  But  I — I  never  tried  to  stop  it.  And  now  the 
weed's  choked  out  everything  else  in  the  garden." 

"Don't  let  it  choke  out  everything.  Root  it  up! 
Tear  it  out !  Don't  be  conquered  by  a  weed,  June." 


THE  BREAKING  POINT  261 

*'Oh,  Uncle  Jim,"  she  almost  groaned  with  the  eter- 
nal cry  of  the  self-indulgent  and  weak,  "if  only  I  had 
stopped  it  in  the  beginning!  I  wouldn't  have  grown 
to  love  him  so  if  I'd  known.  It's  been  such  useless 
suffering.  Nobody's  gained  anything  by  it.  It's  all 
been  such  a  waste !" 

There  was  a  silence.  The  Colonel  sat  looking 
down  with  his  heart  feeling  heavy  as  a  stone. 
When  he  came  against  that  wall  of  acquiescent  femi- 
nine feebleness,  he  felt  that  he  could  say  nothing. 
She  stirred  in  her  chair  and  said,  her  voice  suddenly 
low,  her  words  coming  slowly: 

"They're  to  be  married  in  January.  It's  going  to 
be  a  short  engagement.  Black  Dan's  going  to  give 
them  a  house  down  here  with  everything  new  and 
beautiful.  I'll  see  them  all  the  time,  everywhere.  I 
know  just  the  way  they'll  look,  smiling  into  each 
other's  eyes." 

She  stopped  and  then  sat  up  with  a  rustling  of 
crushed  silks. 

"How  do  people  bear  these  things?  I  haven't  hurt 
anybody  or  done  any  harm  to  have  to  suffer  this  way. 
When  I'm  alone  I  keep  thinking  of  them — how  happy 
they  are  together,  not  caring  for  anything  in  the  world 
but  each  other.  I  think  of  him  kissing  her.  I  think 
that  some  day  they'll  have  a  baby — "  her  voice  trailed 
away  hoarsely  and  she  sank  back  in  the  chair,  her 
head  on  her  breast. 

The  Colonel  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window. 
These  same  savage  pangs  had  once  torn  him.  In  his 
powerful  heyday  it  had  taken  all  the  force  of  his  man- 
hood to  crush  them,  How  could  she  wage  that  blast- 


262  THE  PIONEER 

ing  fight?  He  turned  and  looked  at  her  as  she  sat 
fallen  together  in  the  embrace  of  the  chair. 

"I  think  you're  right,  June,  about  going  away,"  he 
said.  "It's  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do.  The  old 
man'll  have  to  get  on  as  well  as  he  can  for  a  while 
without  you." 

She  did  not  move  and  answered  in  a  dull  voice: 

"It's  the  only  thing  for  me  to  do." 

"When  were  you  thinking  of  going?" 

"Soon — as  soon  as  I  can.  Anyway  before  January. 
I  must  go  before  then.  And — and — Uncle  Jim,  this 
was  what  I  came  to  ask  you  and  was  afraid.  We've 
been  a  long  time  getting  to  it." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  tentative  uneasi- 
ness. 

"It's  asking  a  good  deal,"  she  added,  "but  you've 
always  been  so  good  to  me." 

"What  is  it,  dearie?"  he  said  gently.  "Don't  you 
know  it's  my  pleasure  to  do  anything  for  you  ?" 

"I  want  you  to  give  me  the  money  to  go  with." 

For  a  moment  the  Colonel  was  so  surprised  that 
he  looked  at  her  without  answering.  As  she  spoke 
the  color  came  faintly  into  her  face. 

"It — it — won't  be  so  very  much,"  she  went  on  hur- 
riedly, "perhaps  enough  for  a  year.  I  thought  five 
thousand  dollars  would  do." 

"Five  thousand  dollars,"  he  said,  recovering  him- 
self, "five  thousand  dollars?  Why  of  course — " 

He  paused,  looking  down  on  the  floor  and  asking 
himself  where  he  was  to  get  five  thousand  dollars. 

"I'll  get  it  for  YOU,  only  you'll  have  to  give  me  a 
few  days." 


THE  BREAKING  POINT  263 

She  leaned  forward  with  a  sudden  energy  of  ani- 
mation and  clasped  his  hand.* 

"I  knew  you'd  do  it,"  she  said.  "I  knew  if  I  came 
to  you  for  help  I'd  never  be  disappointed.  I  asked 
father  for  it,  and  he! — "  she  completed  the  sentence 
with  a  shrug. 

"He  hadn't  it,  perhaps,"  suggested  the  Colonel. 

"That's  what  he  said.  He  said  he  couldn't  possibly 
give  it  to  me,  that  he  was  in  debt  now.  And  look  at 
the  way  we  live!  Look  at  this  dress!  He  knows 
how  I  feel.  He  has  only  to  look  at  me,  but  he  said 
he  couldn't  give  it." 

"Will  five  thousand  be  enough,  do  you  think?"  said 
the  Colonel,  who  had  no  comments  to  make  on  Allen, 
of  whose  mode  of  life  and  need  of  money  he  knew 
more  than  June. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  anything  about  travel- 
ing. I've  never  been  anywhere  but  in  California  and 
Nevada.  But  it  ought  to  be  enough  for  a  while.  Any- 
way, if  I  had  that  I  could  go,  I  could  get  away  from 
all  this.  I  could  get  away  from  San  Francisco  and 
California,  and  the  people  and  things  that  torture 
me." 

She  rose  from  the  chair  and  picked  up  her  umbrella. 
Her  languor  of  dejection  had  returned.  She  cast  a 
listless  eye  toward  the  pane  and  said: 

"I  must  go.  It'll  soon  be  dark."  Then  she  moved 
toward  the  window  and  for  a  moment  stood  looking 
down  on  the  street. 

"It's  quite  easy  for  you  to  give  it  to  me,  isn't  it?" 
she  asked  without  turning.  "You're  not  like  father, 
always  talking  about  your  wonderful,  priceless  stocks, 


264  THE  PIONEER 

and  with  not  a  cent  to  give  a  person  who's  just  about 
got  to  the  end  of  everything." 

"Don't  talk  about  that,"  he  answered  quickly. 
"There  can't  be  a  better  use  for  my  money  than  to  help 
you  when  you're  in  trouble.  I'll  see  you  in  a  few  days 
and  arrange  then  to  give  it  to  you." 

She  turned  from  the  window. 

"Well,  good-by,  then,"  she  said.  "I  must  go.  Good- 
by,  Uncle  Jim,  my  own  dear,  dear  Uncle  Jim." 

She  extended  her  hand  to  him,  and  as  he  took  it, 
looked  with  wistful  eyes  into  his. 

"I  feel  as  if  you  were  really  my  father,"  she  said. 
"It's  only  to  a  father  or  mother  that  a  person  feels  they 
can  come  and  ask  things  from  as  I  have  from  you 
to-day." 

The  Colonel  kissed  her  without  speaking.  At  the 
doorway  she  turned  and  he  waved  his  hand  in  fare- 
well, but  again  said  nothing. 

June  walked  home  through  the  soft  gray  damp 
of  the  late  afternoon.  As  she  looked  up  the  lines 
of  the  long  streets  that  climbed  the  hills,  then  sloped 
down  toward  the  water  front,  she  saw  the  fog  blotting 
them  out,  erasing  outlines,  stealthily  creeping  down- 
ward till  the  distance  looked  like  a  slate  blurred  by  a 
wet  sponge.  She  remembered  evenings  like  this  in 
the  first  year  of  her  San  Francisco  life,  when  she 
walked  home  briskly  with  the  chill  air  moist  on  her 
face  and  her  imagination  stirred  by  the  mystery  and 
strangeness  of  the  dim,  many-hilled  city,  veiled  in 
whorls  and  eddies  of  vaporous  white.  There  was 
no  beauty  in  it  to-night,  only  a  sense  of  desolation,  cold 
and  creepingly  pervasive  as  the  fog. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BED-ROCK 

It  took  the  Colonel  a  week  to  raise  the  money.  He 
did  it  by  selling  the  second  of  his  South  Park  houses. 
The  sale  being  a  hurried  one  of  property  already  well 
on  the  decline,  the  house  realized  less  than,  even  in 
the  present  state  of  eclipse,  it  was  worth.  Five  years 
before  it  had  been  appraised  at  fifteen  thousand  dol- 
lars. To-day  the  best  offer  he  could  get  was  nine. 

He  placed  the  money  in  the  bank,  the  five  thousand 
to  stay  there  till  June  had  decided  more  definitely  on 
her  movements.  The  remainder  he  would  leave  on 
deposit  to  his  own  account.  June,  in  Europe,  with 
five  thousand  dollars  to  her  fortune,  was  not  beyond 
the  circle  of  his  sense  of  responsibility.  Some  one 
must  have  money  to  give  her  when  she  needed  it,  as 
she  certainly  would.  Her  habits  of  economy  had 
long  ago  been  sloughed  off  with  her  faded  cotton 
dresses  and  her  country-made  boots.  Rosamund 
would  be  able  to  give  her  a  home,  but  there  must  be 
some  one  somewhere  upon  whom  she  could  make  a 
demand  for  funds. 

There  was  no  need  now  for  the  Colonel  to  study 
his  accounts.  He  knew  them  through  and  through. 
There  was  so  little  to  know.  The  shut-down  mine 
265 


266  THE  PIONEER 

in  Shasta  and  his  mortgage  on  the  Folsom  Street 
house  were  all  that  was  left  to  him.  On  the  day  that 
the  sale  of  the  South  Park  house  was  decided  upon 
he  wrote  to  Rion  Gracey,  asking  him  for  a  position, 
any  overground  position  that  the  owners  of  the  Cresta 
Plata  thought  he  would  suit.  It  was  a  hard  letter  to 
write.  He  was  nearly  sixty,  and  he  had  never,  since 
his  youth,  asked  any  one  for  anything  for  himself. 
But  one  must  live,  "G.  T.'s  widow"  had  to  be  con- 
sidered, not  to  mention  June,  living  in  England  and 
having  to  be  dressed  as  June  should  always  be  dressed. 

Two  days  later  the  details  of  the  sale  were  com- 
pleted and  the  money  deposited.  Late  that  afternoon 
the  Colonel,  clad  carefully  in  the  shiny  coat  June 
had  caught  him  brushing,  went  across  town  to  Fol- 
som Street.  He  had  done  what  she  had  asked  and 
all  was  ready. 

The  servant  told  him  she  was  confined  to  her 
room  with  a  bad  cold,  and  after  a  few  minutes'  wait 
in  the  hall,  he  was  conducted  up  stairs,  and  found 
her  lying  on  a  sofa  in  the  great  front  room,  with  its 
lofty  ceiling  and  tall,  heavily  draped  windows.  The 
sofa  was  drawn  up  before  a  small  fire  that  sent  a 
fluctuating  glow  over  her  face,  flushed  with  a  slight 
fever,  and  burnished  the  loose  coil  of  brown  hair  that 
crowned  her  head.  She  had  a  heavy  cold,  her  voice 
was  hoarse,  her  words  interrupted  at  intervals  by  a 
cough.  She  was  delighted  to  see  him,  sitting  up 
among  the  cushions  on  which  she  reclined  to  hold  out 
her  hand,  and  rallying  him  on  the  length  of  time 
since  his  last  visit. 

"But  I've  been  busy,"  he  said,  drawing  a  chair  up 


BED-ROCK  267 

to  the  foot  of  the  sofa,  "busy  over  your  affairs,  young 
woman." 

"My  affairs,"  she  answered,  looking  puzzled;  then 
with  sudden  comprehension,  "Oh,  the  money!" 

"That's  it,"  he  nodded,  "the  money.  Well,  it's  all 
ready  and  waiting  for  you  in  the  bank.  When  you 
want  it  we'll  open  an  account  for  you,  or  buy  a  letter 
of  credit  with  it,  or  make  whatever  arrangement 
seems  best.  Anyway,  there  it  is  whenever  you  want 
to  go." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Jim!"  she  breathed.  "And  now  what 
do  you  think's  happened?" 

"What?"  he  asked  with  suddenly  arrested  atten- 
tion. It  was  on  his  mind  that  startling  things  might 
be  expected  to  happen  in  the  Allen  household  at  any 
moment. 

"I'm  not  going !" 

"You're  not  going?  Junie,  don't  tell  me  that!" 

The  joy  in  his  voice  and  eyes  was  transfiguring 
in  its  sudden  radiance. 

He  left  his  chair  and  sat  down  on  the  end  of  the 
sofa  near  her  feet,  leaning  toward  her,  pathetically 
eager  to  hear. 

"I've  changed  my  mind," — a  gleam  of  her  old  co- 
quetry brightened  her  face.  "Isn't  that  one  of  the 
privileges  of  my  sex?" 

"What  made  you  change  it?  Good  Lord,  dearie, 
I'm  so  glad!" 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  There  are  several  threads 
to  this  story.  In  the  first  place  Rosamund  didn't 
like  it.  She  thought  it  was  queer  for  me  to  go  to 
Europe  alone  and  leave  father,  and  just  before  her 


268  THE  PIONEER 

wedding,  too.  She  wouldn't  hear  of  my  not  being  at 
the  wedding.  But  the  other  reason  was  more  the  real 
one." 

She  sat  up,  her  elbow  in  the  cushions,  her  head  on 
her  hand,  the  fingers  in  her  loosened  hair.  Her  eyes 
on  the  fire  were  melancholy  and  contemplative. 

"You  remember  what  I  said  to  you  about  not 
being  able  to  live  here  any  longer?  How  I  couldn't 
stand  it?  Well,  father's  going  to  Virginia  City." 

"What  difference  does  that  make  ?  He's  been  going 
there  for  years." 

"Yes,  but  to  live  I  mean.  To  take  us  and  make 
our  home  there.  That's  the  reason  I've  changed  my 
mind.  I  needn't  go  so  far  as  Europe.  We're  all 
going  to  leave  California  and  live  in  Nevada." 

The  Colonel  was  astonished.  He  was  prepared  for 
strange  actions  on  Allen's  part,  but  a  bodily  family 
removal  to  Virginia  when  his  affairs  were  in  so 
complicated  a  condition  was  unlocked  for,  and  in- 
comprehensible. And  why  had  not  Allen  spoken  to 
him  of  it?  When  in  town  they  saw  each  other  almost 
daily  on  Pine  and  Montgomery  Streets. 

"Isn't  it  a  very  sudden  decision  of  your  father's?" 
he  asked.  "He  had  no  idea  of  it  last  week.  You 
didn't  know  it  when  you  came  to  see  me  that  day, 
did  you?" 

"I  didn't  know  of  it  till  two  days  ago.  It's  all 
happened  in  a  minute.  Father  himself  didn't  know 
it.  I  was  still  thinking  about  going  away  and  arguing 
with  Rosamund  about  it,  when  he  came  and  told  us 
he'd  decided  to  move  to  Nevada,  that  he  had  more 
business  there  than  here,  and  it  would  be  much  cheaper 


BED-ROCK  269 

having  one  house  in  Virginia  than  for  him  to  be  up 
there,  with  us  down  here  in  San  Francisco.  What 
made  it  particularly  easy  and  convenient  was  that 
some  one  wants  to  buy  the  house." 

This  was  a  second  shock,  but  there  was  illumination 
in  it.  The  listener  felt  now  that  he  was  getting  to 
the  heart  of  the  matter. 

"Buy  the  house!"  he  ejaculated.     "This  house?" 

"Yes,  this  house.  I've  forgotten  the  man's  name. 
Some  one  from  Sacramento  wants  to  buy  it  just  as 
it  stands,  with  the  furniture  and  everything.  It's  not 
a  very  good  offer,  but  property's  gone  down  here,  as  it 
has  all  over  this  side  of  town,  and  father  says  it's  not 
bad,  considering  that  it  makes  it  so  much  easier  for 
us  to  go." 

He  was,  for  the  moment,  too  astonished  to  make 
any  comments.  She  spoke  as  though  the  sale  was 
decided  on,  the  move  settled.  He  knew  that  neither 
of  the  sisters  was  aware  of  the  mortgage  he  held  on 
the  property,  and  he  listened  to  her  in  staring  silence 
as  she  went  on: 

"So  that's  why  I'm  not  going  to  Europe.  Vir- 
ginia's far  enough  away  from  San  Francisco.  I'll — 
I'll — not  see  them  up  there  or  hear  about  it  as  I 
would  down  here.  And  then  there  was  another  rea- 
son that's  made  me  glad  to  stay.  When  I  thought  of 
leaving  you  and  Rosamund — it  was  so  hard — too 
hard !  I  don't  seem  to  be  one  of  those  independent 
women  who  can  go  about  the  world  alone  far  away 
from  the  people  they  love.  I'd  leave  my  roots  behind 
me,  deep  down  in  the  ground  I  came  from.  I  don't 
think  I  could  ever  pull  them  up.  And  if  I  tried  and 


270  THE  PIONEER 

pulled  too  hard  they'd  break,  and  then  I  suppose  I'd 
wither  up  and  die." 

She  turned  her  eyes  from  the  fire  to  him.  She 
was  smiling  slightly,  her  face  singularly  sad  under 
the  smile.  He  looked  at  her  and  said  softly: 

"My  girl!" 

He  sat  on  with  her  for  a  space,  discussing  the  move 
and  making  plans.  With  some  embarrassment  he  told 
her  of  the  fact  that  he  had  written  to  Rion  Gracey, 
applying  for  a  position.  The  thought  that  he  would 
be  in  Virginia  called  the  first  real  color  of  life  and 
pleasure  into  her  face  that  he  had  seen  there  for 
weeks.  He  saw  that  the  excitement  of  the  move,  the 
hope  of  change  from  the  environment  in  which  she 
had  so  suffered,  had  had  a  bracing  and  cheering  effect 
on  her.  It  was  evident  that  she  had  set  her  heart  on 
going.  Despite  her  cold  and  general  air  of  sickly 
fragility  she  was  more  like  herself,  showed  more  of 
her  old  vivacity  and  interest,  than  she  had  done  since 
the  night  of  the  Davenport  ball. 

On  his  way  down  the  stairs  he  decided,  if  Allen 
was  not  in,  to  wait  for  him  in  the  sitting-room.  But 
as  he  reached  the  stair  foot  a  faint  film  of  cigar 
smoke  and  the  more  pungent  reek  of  whisky  floated 
from  the  open  doorway,  and  told  him  that  the  master 
of  the  house  was  already  there. 

Allen  was  sitting  by  the  table,  a  decanter  and  glass 
near  his  elbow,  his  cigar  poised  in  a  waiting  hand, 
as  he  listened  to  the  descending  footsteps.  The  China- 
man had  told  him  that  Colonel  Parrish  had  called  to 
see  June,  and  Allen  stationed  himself  by  the  door- 
way to  catch  the  visitor  on  his  way  out. 


BED-ROCK  271 

"That  you,  Jim?"  he  called,  as  the  footfall  neared 
the  end  of  the  flight.  "Glad  you  came.  Drop  in  here 
for  a  minute  before  you  go.  I've  something  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about." 

The  Colonel  entering,  noticed  that  the  other  was 
even  more  flushed  than  he  usually  was  at  this  hour, 
and  that  his  glance  was  evasive,  his  manner  con- 
strained. He  pushed  his  cigar-case  across  the  table 
with  a  hand  that  was  unsteady,  and  tried  to  cover  his 
embarrassment  by  the  strident  jocularity  of  his  greet- 
ing. The  Colonel,  sitting  down  on  the  arm  of  a  heavy 
leather  chair,  did  not  beat  about  the  bush. 

"What's  this  June's  been  telling  me,"  he  said, 
"about  you  all  moving  to  Virginia?  Since  when  have 
you  decided  on  that?" 

"Only  a  day  or  two  ago.  I  was  going  around  to 
see  you  to-morrow,  about  it,  if  you  hadn't  come  this 
afternoon.  I've  about  made  up  my  mind  to  go.  My 
business  is  all  up  there  now.  There's  no  sense  liv- 
ing in  Virginia  two-thirds  of  the  time  and  running 
a  house  down  here." 

"How  about  Rosamund's  wedding?"  the  Colonel 
asked. 

"Have  it  up  there.  You  can  have  a  wedding  in 
Virginia  just  as  well  as  you  can  in  San  Francisco. 
I  can  rent  a  house — a  first-rate  house,  furnished  and 
all  ready,  and  give  her  just  as  good  a  send-off  as  any 
girl  in  California.  That's  what  I  calculate  to  do.  It'll 
require  money  up  there  or  down  here,  but  that's  an 
expense  that's  got  to  be." 

"June  says  you've  had  an  offer  for  this  house.  Who 
made  it,  and  what's  he  offered?" 


272  THE  PIONEER 

Allen  leaned  forward  to  knock  off  the  ash  of 
his  cigar  on  the  tray  beside  him. 

"That's  what  I  wanted  to  see  you  about,"  he  said 
slowly.  "Yes,  I've  had  an  offer.  It's  from  a  man 
named  Spencer  from  Sacramento.  Just  come  down 
here  to  settle.  He's  got  a  big  family,  and  wants  a 
good  sized  house  and  garden  for  the  kids  to  play  in. 
Fashionable  locality  doesn't  count  for  much  with  him. 
He's  offered  twenty-five  thousand  down  for  the  place 
as  it  stands,  furniture  and  all." 

There  was  a  slight  pause  and  the  speaker  added: 

"It's  what  decided  me  to  go  to  Virginia,  get  rid  of 
this — and — and — get  some  ready  money.  I'm  pretty 
close  to  the  ragged  edge,  Jim." 

"I  don't  see  how  it's  going  to  benefit  you,"  said 
the  Colonel.  "My  mortgage  and  the  interest  for  two 
years  back,  paid  in  full,  doesn't  leave  you  much  more 
than  your  fares  to  Virginia." 

Allen  got  up,  walked  a  few  steps  away,  then  came 
back  and  stood  by  the  Colonel's  chair.  His  face  was 
deeply  flushed,  but  it  had  lost  its  embarrassed  air. 
He  looked  resolute  and  determined. 

"Jim,"  he  said  doggedly,  "I've  got  to  have  that 
money." 

"Beau  Allen,"  said  the  Colonel  in  the  same  tone, 
"by  what  right  do  you  dare  to  say  that  to  me?" 

For  a  silent  moment  they  eyed  each  other,  then 
the  elder  man  went  on: 

"Twenty-five  years  ago  you  stole  my  sweetheart. 
Four  years  ago  you  tried  to  steal  my  land  and  I  gave 
it  to  you,  because  you  had  a  wife  and  two  helpless 
children;  and  now  you're  trying  to  steal  my  house." 


BED-ROCK  273 

'Tve  got  the  same  right  as  I  had  before,"  said 
the  other,  "I've  still  got  two  helpless  children." 

"Am  I  to  be  robbed  to  provide  for  your  children?" 

"You're  using  pretty  strong  words,  Jim,  but  you've 
had  provocation.  You've  met  bad  usage  at  my  hands 
and  you've  given  back  good.  Give  it  back  once  more, 
for  the  last  time.  Give  it  back  for  the  sake  of  my  two 
girls.  They're  as  helpless  now  as  they  ever  were,  and 
God  knows  I'm  as  unable  to  help  them." 

"Why  should  I  keep  on  providing  for  your  chil- 
dren? You're  their  father,  younger  than  I,  and  as 
able-bodied.  Four  years  ago  I  put  you  on  your  feet 
when  I  gave  you  the  Parrish  Tract.  You've  had  your 
chances,  the  best  I  could  give  you.  I'm  on  the  ragged 
edge  too.  I'm  sixty  years  old  and  I've  had  to  apply 
for  a  position." 

"Listen  to  me,  Jim,"  with  desperate  urgence.  "Let 
me  have  this  money  till  after  Rosamund's  marriage. 
Let  me  have  fifteen  thousand  dollars  of  it  So  help 
me  God,  I'll  invest  the  rest  in  your  name  in  any  securi- 
ties you  mention.  Don't  you  see  I've  got  to  have 
money  till  after  that?  I  can't  let  Harrower  know 
we're  bust.  You  think  he  doesn't  care.  But  I  tell 
you  he  does.  What's  going  to  happen  to  Rosamund 
if  he  throws  her  over  at  the  last  moment?"  • 

The  Colonel  was  silent,  looking  at  the  ash  tray  from 
beneath  down-drawn,  bushy  brows.  Allen  close  at 
his  elbow  continued  with  fevered  intensity: 

"Rosamund's  wrapped  up,  body  and  soul,  in  that 
man.  What's  she  going  to  do  if  he  backs  out?  And 
you  know  him ;  you've  seen  the  kind  he  is,  daft  about 
his  family  and  his  ancient,  honorable  name.  Even 


274  THE  PIONEER 

if  he  doesn't  want  money  with  her  do  you  think  he, 
with  his  ancestors'  portraits  hanging  on  the  walls, 
wants  to  marry  a  girl  whose  father's  a  busted  mining 
speculator — in  debt  all  round,  who  hasn't  got  the 
means  to  buy  his  daughter  a  decent  dress  to  get 
married  in?  Look  at  June!  Are  the  futures  of  both 
my  daughters  going  to  be  ruined  because  I'm  broke? 
Good  God,  Parrish,  you  care  for  them!  You  can't 
now,  when  you  see  what  June's  been  brought  to,  stand 
in  the  way  of  Rosamund's  happiness." 

The  Colonel  sat  looking  at  the  ash  tray  for  a  frown- 
ing moment,  then  he  said: 

"What  have  you  done  with  the  spring?  If  there 
had  been  no  mineral  on  the  land  the  spring  would 
have  brought  you  an  income  for  years." 

"I  sold*  the  land  with  -the  spring  on  it,  after  the 
Crown  Point  collapse.  Blake,  the  hotel  man  in  San 
Jose,  bought  it,  and  is  building  a  hotel  up  there  now. 
That's  the  past.  I'm  not  defending  it,  nor  my  life 
between  then  and  now.  I'm  talking  of  my  children. 
Put  me,  and  what  I  am,  out  of  the  question.  It's  my 
two  girls  that  count  just  now." 

The  Colonel  rose,  and  walking  to  the  fireplace, 
stood  there  with  his  elbow  on  the  mantel-piece,  looking 
down  at  the  small  fire  that  glowed  in  the  grate.  Allen 
by  the  table  watched  him  with  anxious,  waiting  eyes. 

"I've  got  chances  in  Virginia,"  he  said.  "Living 
on  the  spot  there's  a  different  proposition  from  run- 
ning back  and  forth  like  this.  The  Maybough  prop- 
erties that  I'm  interested  in  are  looking  pretty  prom- 
ising. Inside  of  a  year,  if  they  turn  out  as  we  expect, 
I  may  be  able  to  pay  you  the  whole  sum  back." 


BED-ROCK  275 

The  Colonel  gave  a  suppressed  sound,  short  and 
scornful,  but  did  not  raise  his  head.  The  other  went 
on. 

"Fifteen  thousand  will  carry  us  to  Virginia  and 
over  the  wedding.  Harrower's  to  be  back  in  the 
spring  and  they'll  be  married  as  soon  as  he  comes. 
Spencer  wants  the  house  in  January  or  February. 
That  will  just  about  fit  in.  We  can  go  to  Virginia 
as  soon  as  the  sale's  completed  and  have  everything 
ready  and  in  shape  by  the  time  Harrower  gets  here. 
And  it  will  be  better  for  June,  too,  better  to  get  her 
out  of  all  this.  She  feels  pretty  bad,  poor  little  girl ! 
One  of  the  reasons  that  makes  me  so  keen  about 
selling  the  place  and  leaving  is  to  get  her  away  from 
all  this  talk  about  Barclay  and  that  Gracey  girl." 
The  Colonel,  without  raising  his  eyes,  said: 
"You'll  want  the  whole  twenty-five  thousand." 
"No — no — "  said  Allen  with  undisguised  eagerness, 
hope  illuminating  his  face,  "fifteen  will  do,  though 
of  course  twenty  would  be  better.  Fifteen  ought  to 
carry  us  well  along  into  the  summer,  and  by  that  time 
the  Maybough  should  be  paying.  There'll  be  the 
wedding  and  the  trousseau.  Of  course  twenty  would 
be  better,  but  if  you'll  let  me  have  the  fifteen  I  can 
do  it.  I'll  invest  the  other  ten  any  way  you  may  say 
and — " 

He  stopped  as  the  Colonel  turned  from  the  fire  with 
a  short  laugh. 

"Sell  the  house,"  he  said,  "and  take  it  all." 
"What? — "  Allen  did  not  quite  dare  to  believe  it. 
"Sell  the  house.     See  Spencer  as  soon  as  you  can, 
and  I'll  give  you  satisfaction  of  the  mortgage." 


276  THE  PIONEER 

"Jim!"  the  other  ejaculated,  and  held  out  a  shak- 
ing hand. 

But  the  Colonel  brushed  by  it  and  passed  into  the 
hall,  where  his  hat  and  coat  hung.  Allen  followed 
him,  trying  to  talk,  but  he  stopped  the  feeble  words 
of  gratitude.  Standing  under  the  hall  lamp,  the  light 
falling  on  his  white  hair,  he  said, 

"There's  no  thanks  between  you  and  me.  If  it 
wasn't  for  your  daughters  I'd  see  you  standing  on 
the  corner  begging  for  nickels  and  not  drop  one  in 
your  tin  cup.  And  you  know  it.  You  know,  too, 
what  I  feel  about  them,  and  why  I  feel  it.  You  know 
I'd  do  it  again  if  I  had  the  money.  But  I  haven't. 
There's  not  much  more  to  be  got  out  of  me.  You've 
about  sucked  me  dry." 

The  night  was  clear  and  he  walked  home,  slowly 
and  lingeringly  by  a  circuitous  route  of  cross-streets. 
At  first  he  paced  onward  in  an  absorbed  reverie,  his 
eyes  down,  striking  the  cracks  in  the  pavement  with 
the  tip  of  his  cane.  Presently  he  looked  up  above  the 
housetops,  at  the  widths  of  sky  sown  with  great,  calm 
stars.  It  was  early  night;  only  the  larger  stars  were 
visible.  Once  or  twice  as  he  walked  on  looking  up, 
he  laughed,  a  short,  dry  laugh,  at  himself  and  the  fol- 
lies he  had  committed. 

When  he  reached  his  own  room  in  the  Traveler's 
Hotel  he  found  Rion's  answer  to  his  letter.  Standing 
under  the  feeble  light  that  fell  from  the  sitting-room 
chandelier  he  read  it.  It  was  short,  for  Rion  was  but 
a  poor  correspondent.  The  position  of  assistant  sec- 
retary of  the  Cresta  Plata  would  be  vacant  on  Januarv 
first.  The  Gracey  boys  would  be  flattered  if  one  of 


BED-ROCK  277 

James  Parrish's  reputation  and  position  would  care 
to  fill  it.  The  salary  would  be  five  hundred  dollars  a 
month. 

The  Colonel  turned  the  letter  over,  eying  it.  The 
heaviness  of  his  spirit  was  lightened.  Through  the 
few  lines  he  seemed  to  feel  the  strong  grip  of  the  min- 
ing man's  hand,  to  meet  the  searching  look  of  his 
keen,  honest  eyes.  They  would  all  be  together  in 
Virginia — not  such  a  bad  beginning  for  a  new  life  at 
sixty. 


SND  OF  BOOK  H 


BOOK     III 

THE    DESERT 


CHAPTER  I 

NEVADA 

The  mountain  wall  of  the  Sierra  bounds  California 
on  its  eastern  side.  It  is  a  rampart,  towering  and  im- 
pregnable, between  the  garden  and  the  desert.  From 
its  crest,  brooded  over  by  cloud,  glittering  with 
crusted  snows,  the  traveler  can  look  over  crag  and 
precipice,  mounting  files  of  pines  and  ravines  swim- 
ming in  unfathomable  shadow,  to  where,  vast,  pale, 
far-flung  in  its  dreamy  adolescence,  lies  California, 
the  garden.  On  the  other  side — gaunt,  hostile,  gray — 
is  Nevada,  the  desert. 

In  other  lands  nature  and  man  have  ended  their 
struggle  for  supremacy.  Man  has  conquered  and 
nature,  after  long  years  of  service,  is  glad  to  work 
for  him,  to  quicken  the  seed  he  sows,  to  swell  the  fruit 
on  the  branch,  and  ripen  the  heads  of  grain.  She 
laps  him  round  with  comfort,  whispers  her  secrets 
to  him,  reveals  herself  in  sweet,  sylvan  intercourse. 
And  he,  cosily  content,  knows  her  as  his  loving  slave, 
no  more  rebellious,  happy  to  serve. 

But  in  Nevada,  nature  is  still  unconquered,  sav- 
age and  supreme.  It  is  the  primordial  world,  with 
man  a  shivering  stranger  amid  its  grim  aloofness. 
When  the  voice  of  God  went  out  into  the  darkness  and 
281 


282  THE  PIONEER 

said,  "Let  there  be  light,"  the  startled  life,  cowering 
in  caves  arid  beneath  rocks,  may  have  looked  out  on 
such  a  land — an  unwatered  waste,  treeless,  flower- 
less,  held  in  an  immemorial  silence. 

Man  as  we  know  him  has  no  place  here.  He  is  a 
speck  moving  between  the  dome  of  sky  and  the  floor 
of  earth.  Nature  scorns  him,  has  watched  him  die 
and  whitened  his  bones  in  a  few  blazing  weeks.  The 
seed  he  plants  withers  in  its  kernel,  the  earth  he  turns 
up,  frosted  with  alkali,  drops  apart  in  livid  flakes. 
The  rare  rivers  by  which  he  pitches  his  tent  are 
sucked  into  the  soil,  as  though  grudging  him  the 
few  drops  with  which  he  cools  his  burning  throat. 
An  outcast  from  a  later  age  he  is  an  intruder  here. 
These  solemn  wastes  and  eternal  hills  have  not  yet 
learned  to  call  him  master. 

When  the  pioneers  trailed  across  it,  Nevada  was 
to  them  only  "the  desert,"  a  place  where  the  horrors 
of  heat  and  thirst  culminated.  They  knew  it  as  a 
sterile,  gray  expanse,  breaking  here  and  there  into 
parched  bareness,  and  with  lines  of  lilac-blue  or  red- 
dish-purple hills  seeming  to  march  with  them  as  they 
moved.  From  high  places  they  saw  it  outspread  like 
a  map,  its  surface  stippled  with  sage  and  the  long 
green  ribbon  of  a  tree-fringed  river  looping  across 
its  grim  aridity.  At  evening  it  took  on  limpid,  gem- 
like  colors.  The  hills  turned  transparent  sapphire 
and  amethyst,  the  sky  burned  a  thin,  clear  red.  An 
unbroken  stillness  lay  upon  it  and  struck  chill  on  the 
hearts  of  the  little  bands  who,  oppressed  by  its  vast 
indifference,  cowered  beneath  its  remote,  unfamiliar 
stars. 


NEVADA  283 

As  they  passed  across  it  they  mined  a  little;  here 
and  there  they  scraped  the  surface,  clustered  round  a 
stream  bed  for  a  day  or  two  and  sent  the  water  cir- 
cling in  their  pans.  But  California,  the  land  of  prom- 
ise, was  their  goal.  With  the  western  sun  in  their  eyes 
they  looked  at  the  mountain  wall  and  spoke  of  the 
Eldorado  beyond  where  the  gold  lay  yellow  in  the 
sluice  box,  and  flecked  with  glittering  flakes  the  pros- 
pector's pan. 

That  was  in  forty-nine.  Ten  years  later  they  were 
hurrying  backward  over  the  mountains  to  the  streams 
that  drain  Mount  Davidson.  Nevada  had  its  wealth 
too,  a  hidden,  rock-ribbed  wealth,  jealously  buried. 
They  tore  it  out,  built  a  city  of  tents  and  shacks  as 
they  delved,  and  in  ten  years  more  were  gone  again, 
dispersed  over  the  far  West  like  the  embers  of  a 
fire  which  a  wind  scatters. 

Then  once  again  the  barren  state  drew  them  back. 
Deep  in  the  roots  of  Mount  Davidson  one  of  the 
greatest  ore-bodies  in  the  world  lay  buried.  This  time 
they  gathered  in  their  might.  Miner,  engineer,  as- 
sayer,  stock-jobber,  manipulator,  manager  and  mil- 
lionaire poured  over  the  mountain  wall,  bringing  in 
their  train  the  birds  of  prey  that  follow  in  the  wake  of 
the  mining  army.  The  city  of  tents  and  cabins  grew 
into  a  city  of  streets  and  buildings  and  spread,  climb- 
ing the  mountain  side  in  terraces.  A  railroad  crawled 
perilously  to  it,  looping  over  the  mountain  flanks.  In 
a  cleared  nook  by  a  river  the  smoke  of  its  mills  black- 
ened the  sky. 

Isolated  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  encircled  by 
desolation,  the  town  seethed  and  boiled  with  an  ab- 


284  THE  PIONEER 

normal  activity,  a  volcano  of  life  in  the  midst  of  a 
dead  land.  About  it  the  desert  brooded,  pressing  in 
upon  it,  watching  and  waiting.  To  it  the  little  city 
was  an  outside  thing,  hostile,  alien,  unwelcome.  It 
scorned  the  pigmy  passions  of  its  men  and  women, 
had  no  sympathy  with  the  extravagances  of  their 
money  madness.  When  they  had  been  brushed  away 
like  an  ant-hill  by  a  passing  foot,  it  would  sweep 
over  their  town,  obliterate  their  traces,  reclaim  its 
own.  And  once  again  the  silence  of  a  landscape 
where  there  is  neither  ripple  of  water  nor  murmur 
of  leaf  would  resettle  in  crystal  quietude. 

Confined  within  their  own  walls,  with  no  outlet  for 
the  pressure  under  which  they  lived,  the  inhabitants 
of  Virginia  burned  with  a  wild  activity  and  energy. 
The  conditions  of  life  were  so  unusual,  so  fiercely 
stimulating  to  effort  and  achievement,  that  average 
human  beings  were  lifted  from  their  places  and  be- 
came creatures  of  dauntless  initiative.  They  con- 
quered the  unconquerable,  accomplished  triumphs  of 
daring  and  ingenuity  where  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances they  would  have  recoiled  before  insuperable 
obstacles.  They  were  outside  themselves,  larger  for 
good  or  evil  than  they  had  ever  been  before  or 
would  be  again.  Nature  had  dared  them  to  her  van- 
quishing and  they  had  risen  to  the  challenge. 

In  the  spring  of  1874  the  ferment  incident  to  the 
opening  of  the  great  ore-body  that  has  gone  down  in 
history  as  the  "Big  Bonanza,"  began  to  bubble  toward 
boiling  point.  Month  by  month  stocks  had  steadily 
risen,  and  month  by  month  the  huge  treasure  cham- 
ber, filled  with  silver  as  a  nut  is  with  kernel,  devel; 


NEVADA  285 

oped  in  ever  increasing  richness.  The  city  was 
packed  close  as  a  hive  with  bees  with  twenty-five 
thousand  souls  all  quivering  to  the  increasing  mo- 
rn entum  of  the  excitement.  The  mines  were  a  dy- 
namo whence  electric  vibrations  spread  into  the  world 
outside.  The  dwellers  in  huts  among  the  sage  were 
shaken  by  them.  They  thrilled  along  the  Pacific  slope. 
In  New  York  and  London  men  felt  them  and  their 
pulses  quickened.  The  Bonanza  times  were  nearly 
at  the  flood. 

The  city  grew  with  astonishing  rapidity,  breath- 
lessly climbed  the  side  of  Mount  Davidson  in  ascend- 
ing tiers  of  streets.  There  was  no  time  for  grading 
or  paving.  Two  stories  in  the  front  meant  four  in 
the  back,  the  kitchens  of  B  Street  looked  over  the 
shingled  roofs  of  the  shops  on  C  Street.  It  was  a 
gray  town,  clinging  to  a  desolate  mountain  side,  in 
a  gray  country.  At  its  base,  appearing  to  force  it  up 
the  slope,  were  the  hoisting  works  of  the  mines,  dot- 
ted so  .close  along  the  lode  they  nearly  touched. 
Every  mine  in  this  line  was  a  mighty  name  in  the 
world  of  finance.  New  York,  London  and  Paris  wait- 
ed each  morning  to  hear  news  from  the  town  in  the 
wilderness.  And  as  the  ant-hill  swarmed  and  trem- 
bled with  the  'fury  of  its  concentrated  life,  the  desert 
looked  on,  serene,  incurious,  still, 


CHAPTER   II 

OLD  FRIENDS  WITH   NEW  FACES 

The  Allen  girls  moved  to  Virginia  City  in  April. 
Their  father  had  gone  there  early  in  the  year  and 
taken  a  house  which  would  be  a  proper  and  fitting 
place  from  which  to  marry  Rosamund.  He  had  found 
what  he  thought  suitable  in  the  mansion,  as  they 
called  it  in  Virginia,  of  one  Murchison,  a  mining 
superintendent,  who,  in  the  heyday  of  sudden  riches, 
had  built  him  a  comfortable  home  and  then  died. 

The  Murchison  mansion  had  come  on  the  market 
just  at  the  right  moment,  Allen  told  people.  Men 
wondered  where  his  money  came  from,  as  the  current 
talk  among  his  kind  was  that  "the  bottom  had  fallen 
out  of  the  Barranca,  and  Allen  was  bust."  He  him- 
self spread  the  story  that  successful  speculations  had 
once  again  set  him  on  his  feet.  That  something  had 
done  so  was  proved  by  his  renting  of  the  Murchison 
mansion,  a  furnished  house  in  the  Virginia  City  of 
that  period  being  an  expensive  luxury. 

It  stood  at  the  south  end  of  B  Street,  perched  high 
on  the  top  of  two  sloping  terraces  which  were  bulk- 
headed  by  a  wooden  wall,  surmounted  by  an  orna- 
mental balustrade.  Small  fruit  trees  and  flowering 
shrubs  clothed  the  terraces  in  a  thin,  flickering  fo- 
286 


OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES    287 

liage,  just  showing  its  first,  faint  tips  of  green  when 
the  girls  arrived.  A  long  flight  of  steps  ran  up  to 
a  balcony  which  rounded  out  about  the  front  door, 
and  upon  which  one  seemed  to  be  mounted  high  in 
the  air,  looking  down  over  a  dropping  series  of  flat 
and  peaked  roofs  to  where  the  dark  red  walls  and 
tall  chimneys  of  the  hoisting  works  clustered  about 
the  city's  feet.  Beyond  this  unrolled  the  wild,  bare 
landscape,  undulating  line  of  mountain  beyond  moun- 
tain, cut  clear  as  cameos  against  the  blue  Nevada  sky. 

The  vivid  green  streak  made  by  the  Carson  River 
gleamed  to  the  right.  At  the  limit  of  sight,  fitted  into 
a  gap  between  the  hills,  was  the  Carson  desert,  a 
patch  of  stark,  yellow  sand. 

The  girls  were  not  surprised  at  the  style  of  the 
house.  They  knew  vaguely  that  their  father's  affairs 
were  not  as  satisfactory  as  they  had  been,  but  of  their 
truly  desperate  nature  they  had  no  suspicion.  There 
were  delays  in  the  sale  of  the  Folsom  Street  property, 
and  it  was  not  till  March  that  the  new  tenant  appeared 
from  Sacramento  to  take  possession.  In  response  to 
their  father's  orders  they  obediently  gathered  together 
their  belongings,  closed  the  house,  and  made  the  move 
to  Virginia  without  assistance  from  him. 

Events  had  fallen  together  in  an  unexpected  way, 
but  one  that  in  the  end  spared  June  those  glimpses 
of  her  lover's  happiness  that  she  had  told  the  Col- 
onel would  be  unbearable.  It  is  true  that  she  had  to 
see  the  carriages  drive  to  Jerry's  marriage  and  hear 
the  sound  of  his  wedding  bells.  But  before  that  event 
circumstances  had  developed  which  made  radical 
changes  in  the  plans  of  bride  and  groom.  Black  Dan 


288  THE  PIONEER 

had  discovered  that  Jerry's  business  had  dwindled  to 
nothing,  his  private  fortune  vanished  in  the  Crown 
Point  collapse.  The  bonanza  king,  with  his  rapidly 
accumulating  millions,  had  a  sturdy,  American  ob- 
jection to  an  idle  man,  especially  when  that  man  was 
to  be  the  husband  of  his  only  child,  and  was  known 
to  be  of  a  light  and  pleasure-loving  temperament.  A 
position  was  made  for  Jerry  on  the  Cresta  Plata,  with 
duties  sufficiently  exacting  to  keep  him  continually 
occupied,  and  with  the  added  attraction  of  an  exceed- 
ingly generous  salary. 

Mercedes  sulked  when  she  heard  it.  She  did  not 
want  to  live  in  Virginia.  She  had  thought  she  might 
go  there  from  time  to  time,  flit  through  it,  a  disturb- 
ing vision  of  beauty  to  miners  and  millionaires,  but 
to  take  up  her  residence  there  was  a  different  matter. 
She  wanted  to  occupy  the  fine  house  her  father  had 
given  her  in  San  Francisco,  entertain  royally  and  be 
a  queen  of  society,  with  Jerry  as  a  necessary  satellite 
circling  about.  She  complained  to  Black  Dan,  even 
cried  a  little,  and  for  the  first  time  in  Tier  life  found 
him  obdurate. 

The  doting  father  was  troubled  about  the  future  of 
his  child.  He  disliked  the  marriage  she  was  making, 
but  knew  that  to  protest  against  it  was  hopeless.  He 
mistrusted  Jerry,  whose  record  he  had  often  heard 
canvassed,  and  whose  style,  as  a  charmer  of  women, 
he  despised.  He  wanted  the  pair  under  his  eye.  He 
wanted  to  keep  his  hand  tight  on  his  son-in-law.  He 
did  not  believe  that  the  man  loved  Mercedes,  and  he 
took  a  bitter  satisfaction  in  bringing  him  to  Virginia 
and  setting  him  to  work. 


OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES    289 

"Rion  and  I  can  watch  him,"  he  thought  to  him- 
self. "We'll  keep  his  nose  to  the  grindstone,  and  if 
he  shows  any  symptoms  of  lifting  it  we'll  hold  it 
closer." 

Black  Dan  said  little  of  his  uneasiness  to  any  one 
save  his  brother.  The  two  men  had  the  same  opinion 
of  Jerry,  and  though  neither  expressed  it  to  the  other, 
each  felt  cold  doubts  as  to  the  happiness  of  the 
marriage. 

Early  in  January,  after  a  honeymoon  of  less  than 
a  week,  Jerry  was  summoned  to  his  new  duties.  He 
and  Mercedes  were  installed  in  a  house  on  R  Street 
which  had  been  hired  and  hastily  refitted  for  them. 
Here  in  the  heart  of  a  biting  Nevada  winter  their 
married  life  began.  Neither  bride  nor  groom  guessed 
that  it  was  being  surreptitiously  watched  by  three 
pairs  of  interested  eyes.  To  the  observation  of  the 
suspicious  and  inimical  Graceys  that  of  Colonel  Par- 
rish  was  added.  He  too  had  come  to  Virginia  on  the 
first  of  January  to  assume  his  position  as  assistant 
secretary  of  the  Cresta  Plata.  He  and  Rion  had 
settled  themselves  in  comfortable  quarters  on  the 
floor  over  Caswell's  drug  store,  where  their  rooms 
gave  on  a  balustraded  wooden  veranda  which  looked 
out  on  the  turmoil  of  C  Street. 

It  was  not  from  Jerry,  but  from  Mercedes  that  the 
first  signs  of  discontent  came.  She  had  hated  Vir- 
ginia from  the  first  glimpse  of  it.  The  cold,  bleak 
town,  buffeted  by  furious  winds,  clinging  to  its  bare 
mountain  side,  revolted  her.  Her  little  soul  shrank 
before  the  loneliness  of  the  silent  desert.  She  was 
essentially  a  Southron,  a  lover  of  sunshine,  bright 


290  THE  PIONEER 

colors,  and  gaiety.  Moreover,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  she  felt  neglected.  In  Virginia  City  in  1874 
there  were  more  engrossing  interests  than  the  allure- 
ment of  women.  It  was  a  man's  town,  where  the 
softer  sex  was  in  the  background,  save  as  a  diver- 
sion and  spectacular  luxury.  Mercedes  was  often 
lonely.  Jerry  had  flung  himself  into  the  speculative 
fever  of  the  time  with  fury.  Even  Black  Dan  was 
preoccupied  and  abrupt.  Making  millions  is,  after 
all,  the  most  absorbing  pastime  that  man  may  know. 

Finally  a  delicacy  of  the  throat  developed,  and 
Mercedes  looked  pale  and  thin,  and  began  to  cough. 
It  was  April,  she  had  been  married  four  months,  and 
she  wanted  to  go ;  she  wanted  San  Francisco  and 
sunshine,  and  the  amusements  for  which  she  lived. 

Jerry  did  not  protest.  The  dream  of  passion  was 
at  an  end.  The  Mercedes  he  had  come  to  know  in 
the  intimacy  of  married  life  was  so  different  a  being 
from  the  Mercedes  who  had  beguiled  him  in  the  sum- 
mer, that  he  was  not  sorry  to  have  her  leave  him. 
His  pride  was  hurt  and  he  felt  angry  and  bitter 
against  her,  but  he  had  no  poignant  regrets.  Neither 
had  loved.  The  ignoble  instincts  that  had  drawn  them 
together  were  satiated.  Her  woman's  spite  had  worked 
itself  out.  His  lust  for  her  wealth,  his  desire  for  her 
possession,  were  satisfied.  They  were  willing  to  part. 

She  left  in  April,  it  being  understood  that  Jerry 
was  to  "go  below"  to  see  her  every  two  weeks.  The 
story  that  her  health  had  been  impaired  by  a  climate 
which  had  proved  too  severe  for  many  before  her, 
was  given  out  as  the  reason  for  her  departure.  Black 
Dan  even  was  made  to  believe  it.  He  also  believed 


OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES    291 

her  assurances  that  she  would  return  in  the  summer. 
He  thought  the  few  tears  she  shed  were  grief  at  part- 
ing with  a  husband  whom  he  supposed  she  loved.  He 
determined  to  watch  Jerry  closer  than  ever,  and  for 
this  purpose  moved  into  the  house  on  B  Street,  where 
the  husband  was  now  left  alone. 

Thus  it  fell  out  for  June  that  she  was  spared  the 
sight  of  Jerry  as  a  joyous  bridegroom.  Almost  simul- 
taneously with  the  Aliens'  move  to  Virginia,  Merce- 
des left  it.  June  and  Rosamund  were  arranging  the 
Murchison  mansion  on  B  Street  when  Mrs.  Jerome 
Barclay  was  beginning  those  extensive  purchases  in 
San  Francisco  which  were  to  render  her  home  on 
Van  Ness  Avenue  a  truly  "palatial  residence." 

June  saw  her  old  lover  often.  The  contracted  size 
of  the  town  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  avoid  him. 
More  than  once  they  encountered  each  other  in  the 
houses  of  friends,  and  were  forced  to  interchange  the 
little  dead  phrases  of  society.  Both  were  shaken  by 
these  accidental  meetings.  June  dreaded  and  shrank 
from  the  sight  of  his  face  and  the  sound  of  his  voice ; 
but  Jerry  went  away  from  her  presence,  stirred  and 
uplifted,  his  mind  full  of  the  thought  of  her,  his 
sense  of  her  charm  reawakened. 

His  life,  crowded  with  the  strenuous  business  of 
men,  was  empty  of  what  had  been  for  years  its  main 
interest  and  preoccupation.  The  vain  man,  confi- 
dent of  his  attractions,  had  been  played  with  and 
scornfully  cast  aside.  The  bitterness  of  his  marriage 
was  as  wormwood  to  him.  He  felt  sore  toward 
Mercedes,  whose  indifference  toward  him  had  roused 
in  him  the  angry  amaze  that  a  spoiled  child  feels 


292  THE  PIONEER 

toward  the  stranger  who  is  proof  against,  its  blan- 
dishments. He  felt  himself  wronged,  and  in  a 
way,  trapped.  They  made  him  work  like  a  day 
laborer  for  his  salary,  and  his  wife  had  left  him.  That 
was  what  he'd  got  by  marrying!  Lupe,  poor,  dead 
Lupe,  would  not  have  treated  him  so!  And  June — 
what  a  fool  he'd  been!  He  forgot  that  June  had  no 
money,  and  for  that  reason  he  had  put  her  resolutely 
aside.  He  forgot  that  last  year  he  had  avoided  her 
and  tried  to  banish  all  thought  of  her.  In  his  long- 
ing for  the  adulation  and  tenderness  upon  which  he 
had  lived  her  image  came  nearer  and  nearer,  grew 
more  and  more  disturbing  and  sweet. 

Early  in  May  Rosamund  left  for  a  week's  visit  to 
San  Francisco  to  accomplish  the  major  part  of  her 
trousseau-buying.  June,  left  in  the  Murchison  man- 
sion to  "keep  house" — a  duty  whicfi  she  performed 
but  ill — found  many  empty  hours  on  her  hands.  She 
had  made  few  friends  in  the  new  town.  The  apathy 
which  had  fallen  on  her  at  the  time  of  Jerry's  en- 
gagement had  not  lifted,  and  the  coming  loss  of  Rosa- 
mund weighed  heavier  every  day.  In  the  tumult 
around  her  her  life  was  quiet  and  colorless.  She  told 
the  Colonel  that  he  was  the  only  constant  visitor  she 
had. 

"If  you've  another  as  regular  as  I  am,"  he  had 
answered,  "I'll  have  to  look  into  it." 

Then  he  had  added,  in  what  he  fondly  thought  was 
a  light,  unmeaning  tone,  "Don't  even  see  much  of 
Rion?" 

"Rion?"  June  had  replied  with  the  arched  eyebrows 
of  surprised  query.  "I  don't  see  him  at  all." 


OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES    293 

After  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  ex- 
cept of  course  for  the  Colonel  to  go  to  Rion  and  ask 
him  why  he  had  not  called  on  Miss  Allen,  and  for 
Rion,  red  and  embarrassed,  to  answer  that  he  did 
not  suppose  Miss  Allen  would  care  to  see  him,  but  if 
she  did  he  would  go. 

There  was  one  house  to  which  she  did  pay  con- 
stant visits.  This  was  Mitty  Sullivan's,  on  the  north 
side  of  town,  near  the  Cresta  Plata  hoisting  works. 

These  were  booming  days  for  Mitty.  Her  hus- 
band's fortune  was  mounting  in  leaps  too  vast  and 
rapid  to  be  easily  calculated.  The  Gracey  boys'  be- 
lief in  their  superintendent  had  not  been  misplaced. 
The  brawny,  half-educated  Irishman  had  risen  to  a 
commanding  position,  and  was  respectfully  alluded  to 
as  having  "the  best  nose  for  ore  in  the  two  states." 
He  was  already  very  rich,  having  for  the  past  four 
years  successfully  speculated  on  "inside  information." 
His  great  gains  made  even  the  princely  salary  he  re- 
ceived on  the  Cresta  Plata  seem  small.  He  was  in 
the  thick  of  the  whirlpool  now  and  Mitty  was  with 
him.  She  had  a  baby,  a  girl,  and  she  saw  it,  backed 
by  the  fortune  that  she  and  Barney  were  making, 
going  to  Europe  and  marrying  "a  lord."  For  Mitty's 
horizon  had  widened  with  astonishing  rapidity  since 
the  days  when  she  waited  on  table  at  the  Foleys  hotel. 

On  one  of  the  afternoons  of  Rosamund's  absence 
June  walked  across  town  for  a  chat  and  a  cup  of  tea 
with  her  old-time  friend.  From  B  Street  and  its 
neat  house-fronts  and  gardens  she  descended  to  the 
never-ending  movement  of  the  street  below.  This — 
the  main  stem  of  the  mining  city — for  ever  seething 


294  THE  PIONEER 

with  a  turbulent  current  of  life,  was  the  once  famous 
C  Street,  a  thoroughfare  unique  in  the  history  of 
American  towns. 

The  day  shift  would  not  be  up  for  hours  yet. 
When  its  time  was  up  the  mines  would  vomit  forth 
thousands  of  men,  who,  penned  all  day  in  the  dark, 
Stirling  heat  of  the  underground  city,  would  pour  into 
the  garish  brilliancy  of  the  overground  one  for  the 
diversions  of  the  night.  Here,  in  the  gusto  of  their 
liberation,  they  would  range  till  daylight,  restless 
eddies  of  life,  passing  up  one  street  and  down  the 
other,  never  silent,  never  still,  pressing  vaguely  on 
through  the  noise  and  glare,  with  the  encircling 
blackness  hanging  round  their  little  piece  of  the  ani- 
mated, outside  world,  like  an  inky  curtain. 

At  all  hours  the  street  was  crowded.  Now  it 
stretched  up  its  mile  or  two  of  uneven  length  like  a 
gray  canon,  filled  to  both  walls  with  a  human  river. 
Under  the  arcade  formed  by  a  continuous  line  of 
roofs  that  jutted  from  the  second-story  windows 
across  the  sidewalk,  an  endless  throng  passed  up  and 
down.  They  collected  in  groups  before  shop  win- 
dows, overflowed  the  sidewalk  and  encroached  on  the 
middle  of  the  roadway,  congested  in  a  close  packed, 
swaying  mass  of  heads  in  front  of  the  bulletin  boards 
where  the  stock  quotations  were  pasted  up,  gathered 
in  talkative  knots  at  corners. 

The  street,  in  the  mud  of  which  playing  cards,  bits 
of  orange  peel,  fragments  of  theatrical  posters,  scraps 
of  silk  and  ribbon  were  imbedded  like  the  pattern  in 
n.  carpet,  was  as  full  as  the  sidewalk.  The  day  of 
the  overland  freighters  was  past,  but  ore  wagons  still 


OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES    295 

drove  sixteen-mule  teams,  the  driver  guiding  by  a 
single  rope,  the  mules  bending  their  necks  under  the 
picturesque  arches  of  their  bells.  Between  these, 
busy  managers  flashed  by  in  their  buggies,  stopping 
here  and  there  to  lean  from  their  seats  for  a  moment's 
converse  with  a  knot  of  men.  In  more  fashionable 
equipages,  brought  up  from  San  Francisco  and  drawn 
by  sleek-skinned,  long-tailed  horses,  the  wives  of  sud- 
denly enriched  superintendents  lolled  back  gorgeously, 
their  beruffled  silk  skirts  floating  out  over  the  wheel, 
the  light  flashing  on  their  diamonds. 

Over  all  this  movement  of  life  there  was  an  un- 
ceasing swell  of  sound,  a  combination  of  many  notes 
and  keys,  more  noticeable  by  reason  of  the  outlying 
rim  of  silence.  Thousands  of  voices  blended  into  a 
single  sonorous  hum,  through  which  broke  the  jing- 
ling of  pianos  from  the  open  doors  of  saloons,  the 
click  of  billiard  balls,  the  cries  of  the  drivers  to  their 
mules,  the  raucous  voices  of  street  hawkers  selling 
wares  at  populous  corners,  and  the  sweet,  broken 
melody  of  the  bells.  Beneath  this — a  continuous  level 
undertone — was  the  murmur  of  machinery,  with  the 
faint  throb  of  the  engines  beating  through  it  like  the 
sound  of  the  steady,  unagitated  pulse-beats  of  a  labor- 
ing Titan. 

June  pressed  through  the  throng,  walking  rapidly 
toward  the  upper  end  of  C  Street.  Here,  looking  down 
on  the  dark  red  walls  and  tall  chimneys  of  the  Cresta 
Plata,  stood  the  pretty,  one-story  cottage  where 
Mitty  Sullivan  lived.  It  was  surrounded  by  a  square 
of  garden,  in  which  lilacs  were  budding  and  apple- 
trees  showed  a  delicate  hoar  of  young  blossom. 


296  THE  PIONEER 

Mitty's  prosperity  revealed  itself  in  many  ways.  She 
had  a  nurse  for  the  baby  as  well  as  a  "hired  girl." 
She  was  exceedingly  anxious  to  spend  money  and 
very  ignorant  of  how  to  do  it.  She  had  passed  the 
stage — a  recognized  station  in  the  ascending  career 
of  the  western  wife — where  her  husband  had  presented 
her  with  diamond  ear-rings.  The  silver,  crystal,  and 
Britannia  metal  in  the  superintendent's  cottage  were 
astonishing;  only  to  be  rivaled  in  extravagance  by 
the  dresses  which  hung  in  Mitty's  own  wardrobe  and 
which  had  been  ordered — regardless  of  cost — from 
the  best  dressmakers  in  San  Francisco. 

She  greeted  June  with  affection  and  drew  her  into 
the  parlor,  recently  furnished  with  a  set  of  blue  and 
gold  brocade  furniture,  the  windows  draped  with 
lambrequins  to  match.  There  was  a  brilliant  mo- 
quette  carpet  on  the  floor  and  the  walls  were  hung 
with  oil  paintings,  which  Barney  had  bought  on  a 
recent  visit  to  the  coast.  A  quantity  of  growing 
plants  in  the  windows  added  a  touch  of  beauty  to. the 
glaring,  over-furnished  room. 

Mitty  herself  had  grown  into  a  blooming  matron, 
a  trifle  coarse,  for  she  was  fond  of  "a  good  table"  and 
saw  to  it  that  her  hired  girl  knew  how  to  produce 
one,  and  already  menaced  by  the  embonpoint  which 
is  so  deadly  a  foe  to  Californian  beauty.  The  baby 
girl  on  her  arm  was  a  rosily  healthy  infant,  with 
Barney's  red  hair  and  her  mother's  freshness  of 
color.  Twenty  years  later  she  would  bring  her  share 
of  the  Bonanza  fortune,  which  her  father  was  then 
accumulating,  to  the  restoration  of  the  old  New  York 
family  into  which  she  was  to  marry.  Her  sister — yet 


OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES    297 

unborn — was  to  do  the  same  charitable  act  by  the 
castle  and  estates  of  an  English  earl,  who  in  return 
would  make  her  a  countess. 

The  greetings  over,  the  baby  was  placed  by  the 
table  in  her  high  chair  and  given  a  string  of  spools 
and  a  rubber  rabbit  to  play  with,  while  Mitty,  com- 
fortably settling  herself  in  an  arm-chair,  inquired  if 
June  had  noticed  the  stock  quotations  on  her  way 
down.  The  hired  girl,  who  was  setting  down  the 
tea  tray,  listened  with  open  attention  for  the  answer. 
Both  mistress  and  maid  were  "plunging"  according 
to  their  means,  and  when  June  confessed  that  she 
had  passed  the  bulletins  without  reading  the  figures, 
the  two  speculators  looked  at  each  other  in  open 
dismay. 

"It's  so  long  to  wait  till  Barney  comes  home," 
Mitty  complained.  "I  thought  of  course  you'd  read 
them  as  you  passed." 

June  was  contrite,  but  could  remember  nothing. 

"And  I  wanted  to  know  so  much !  They  say  that 
Peruvian's  getting  soft.  They  were  saying  so  this 
morning  anyway.  You  didn't  even  hear  anything  as 
you  came  along?  I  believe  you're  the  only  woman  in 
Virginia  who  doesn't  speculate." 

June  had  not  even  heard.  The  knowing  volubility 
of  Mitty  on  the  fluctuations  of  stocks  in  which  she 
was  as  well  versed  as  Barney  himself,  seemed  little 
short  of  miraculous  to  the  only  woman  in  Virginia 
who  didn't  speculate. 

The  servant,  who  had  been  eagerly  listening  to  the 
conversation,  now  broke  in. 

"I'll  run  up  and  have  a  squint  round,  Mrs.  Sulli- 


298  THE  PIONEER 

van.     Maybe  I  can  pick  up  more  than  Miss  Allen." 

Mitty  tried  to  be  dignified  and  give  the  proposition 
a  deliberate  consideration.  But  her  consent  came 
with  a  promptitude  it  was  difficult  to  suppress.  As 
the  woman  whisked  out  through  the  kitchen  door 
she  said  in  a  tone  intended  to  excuse  her  lack  of 
discipline : 

"That  girl's  got  all  her  money  in  Peruvian,  and 
hearing  it  was  'soft'  has  sort  of  upset  her.  Last  week 
she  told  me  she  was  thirty  thousand  dollars  ahead. 
She  only  came  to  live  with  us  because  Barney  being 
one  of  the  big  superintendents,  she  thought  she'd  get 
points,  and  as  she's  an  A  i  girl  I've  got  to  humor  her." 

They  chatted  over  their  tea,  Mitty  regaling  her 
guest  with  the  gossip  of  the  day,  of  which  she  was 
full.  They  had  been  talking  some  time  when  the 
conversation  turned  on  Mercedes  and  Jerry.  It  was 
the  first  time  the  subject  had  come  up  between  them. 
Mitty  knew  part  at  least  of  her  friend's  story,  and 
she  had  tried  to  spare  her,  but  she  hated  Mercedes, 
who  had  treated  her  with  scornful  indifference,  and 
she  hated  Jerry  because  Barney  did.  She  was  glad 
now  to  give  her  candid  opinion  to  the  woman  they 
had  combined  to  hurt. 

"They  said  it  was  her  health  that  was  bad,  and 
that  was  why  she  had  to  quit  and  go  below.  Health !" 
with  a  compressing  of  the  corners  of  her  mouth  and 
a  glance  of  side-long  meaning.  "Her  health's  all  right; 
it  was  her  temper." 

"Temper!"  said  June  faintly.  "Uncle  Jim  said  her 
throat  was  delicate  and  she  had  a  cough." 

"Cough !"  snorted  Mitty.    "We  all  have  coughs,  but 


OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES    299 

we  don't  leave  our  husbands  and  go  cavorting  down 
to  San  Francisco  to  throw  round  money  and  pick  up 
some  other  man.  She  didn't  care  for  him.  That  was 
all  that  was  the  matter.  It's  a  simple  disease  and  a 
lot  of  'em  get  it." 

June  silently  stirred  her  tea.  Every  word  pierced 
her,  but  she  wanted  to  hear  them.  She  had  heard 
nothing  of  the  separation,  except  the  generally  ac- 
cepted story  of  Mercedes'  delicate  health.  Instinct 
told  her  that  Mitty,  the  woman,  had  looked  deeper 
and  would  know  more  of  what  had  really  been  the 
case.  Without  speaking  she  raised  her  eyes  from  the 
cup  and  fixed  them  on  the  baby,  who  in  an  excess  of 
affection  was  licking  the  face  of  the  rubber  rabbit. 
Mitty  went  on  with  complacent  volubility: 

"Barney  thought  maybe  it  was  a  baby.  He's  a 
simple,  innocent  sort  of  man,  Barney  Sullivan.  But 
I  said  to  him,  'Don't  you  f^r,  there  won't  be  any 
babies  in  that  house!  The  Lord  ain't  goin'  to  make 
such  a  break  as  to  give  that  woman  a  baby.'  I  guess 
not,"  said  Mitty,  folding  her  arms  and  looking  grimly 
round  the  room  as  if  challenging  an  unseen  audience 
to  contradict  her. 

June  returned  to  the  stirring  of  her  tea  while  her 
hostess  continued, 

''No.  She  just  hated  Virginia.  Nobody  was  stand- 
ing round  here  to  kiss  her  boots  and  do  the  door- 
mat act.  And  she  didn't  like  Jerry  well  enough  for 
him  to  make  her  stand  it.  You  have  to  like  a  man 
a  good  deal  to  stay  here  in  winter," — in  the  tone  of 
one  who  is  forced  to  admit  a  melancholy  fact.  "If 
you  don't;  you're  liable  to  pretend  to  get  sick  and 


300  THE  PIONEER 

have  to  go  below  for  a  spell.  I've  seen  many  of  'em 
go  that  way." 

"Didn't  Jerry  try  to  stop  her?"  said  June  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Try  to  stop  her?" — with  angry  contempt — "not 
much!  He  didn't  care.  Why,  June  Allen,  he  was 
glad,  downright  glad,  I  believe,  to  have  her  go.  He 
don't  care  for  anything  under  the  canopy  but  Jerry 
Barclay." 

"He  cared  when  he  married  her."  June's  voice  was 
lower  still  and  shook.  Her  friend  noticed  it  and  de- 
termined to  sow  seed,  now  she  had  the  opportunity.  , 

"Next  to  himself  Jerry  Barclay  cares  for  money. 
That's  what  he  was  after,  and  he  didn't  get  it  the  way 
he  expected.  He's  got  the  smoothest  tongue  any  man 
ever  had  in  his  head,  and  he's  used  it  right  along  to 
get  money  with.  How  long  was  Mrs.  Newbury 
dead  when  he%got  engaged  to  Mercedes  Gracey?  And 
do  you  suppose  he'd  have  ever  asked  her  if  they 
hadn't  struck  one  of  the  biggest  ore-bodies  in  Vir- 
ginia on  the  fifteen  hundred  foot  level  of  the  Cresta 
Plata?  But  they've  got  him  by  the  leg  up  here  now," 
— with  an  exultant  laugh — "the  whole  three  of  'em's 
on  to  him.  They  give  him  a  big  salary  and  don't 
they  make  him  work  for  it — oh,  my !  There  ain't 
no  drones  in  the  Gracey  boys'  hive,  you  can  bet,  and 
Jerry  Barclay's  got  to  hustle  for  every  cent  he  earns. 
No  San  Francisco  and  good  times  for  him !  If  Mer- 
cedes was  to  cry  and  do  the  loving  wife  act  to  Black 
Dan  and  say  she  couldn't  live  without  her  husband  I 
wouldn't  bet  but  what  she'd  get  him.  But  she  ain't 
{lone  it,  She  don't  want  him,  Junie.  That's  what's 


OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES    301 

the  matter  in  that  shebang.  Neither  one  of  'em 
wants  the  other." 

"Why  did  she  marry  him?"  said  June.  "Why  did 
she—" 

The  baby  here  interrupted  by  giving  vent  to  a 
loud  exclamation,  and  at  the  same  time  disdainfully 
casting  her  rubber  rabbit  on  the  floor.  Then  she  leaned 
over  the  arm  of  her  high  chair,  staring  with  motion- 
less intentness  at  the  discarded  rabbit,  as  if  expect- 
ing to  see  it  get  up  and  walk  away. 

"That's  the  thing  that  gets  me,"  said  Mitty  thought- 
fully. "Why  did  she  marry  him?  She  could  have 
got  a  better  man  than  Jerry,  though  I  suppose  he  was 
about  the  best  in  sight  at  the  time.  But  she's  like  the 
baby  here — always  cryin'  and  stretchin'  out  for  toys 
she  can't  reach.  Then  you  give  her  the  toy  and  she 
looks  it  all  over  and  suddenly  gives  a  sort  er  dis- 
gusted snort,  and  throws  it  on  the  floor.  She  ain't 
got  no  more  use  for  it,  and  the  first  thing  you  know 
she'll  be  stretchin'  out  for  another  one." 

June  made  no  answer  to  this  and  Mitty,  big  with 
her  subject,  for  her  dislike  of  Mercedes  was  an  ab- 
sorbing sentiment,  went  on: 

"She  treated  him  like  dirt.  Barney  was  up  there 
one  night  while  they  were  at  dinner.  He  was  just  in 
the  room  in  front  with  the  curtains  down  between  and 
they  didn't  know  he  was  there.  He  said  he  could 
hear  her  pickin'  at  Jerry  because  he'd  been  half  an 
hour  late  for  dinner.  He  said  she  kep'  on  pickin'  and 
pickin'  and  Jerry  not  saying  a  word.  Barney  says 
to  me  when  he  got  home,  'Jerry's  paid  high  for  his 
position.'  And  I  says  to  him  when  he  told  me,  'TKat 


302  THE  PIONEER 

woman's  goin'  to  make  every  one  pay  high  for  any- 
thing they  get  out  er  her.  She's  not  givin*  things 
away  free  gratis.' " 

The  baby's  contemplation  of  the  fallen  rabbit  had 
by  this  time  lost  its  charm.  She  threw  herself  back 
in  her  chair  and  raised  her  voice  in  a  wail  distinctly 
suggestive  of  weariness  of  spirit  and  ennui.  Mitty 
lifted  her,  a  formless,  weeping  bundle,  from  her  chair, 
and  June's  offer  of  the  rabbit  was  met  by  an  angrily 
repulsing  hand  and  a  writhing  movement  of  irritated 
disgust. 

"She's  tired,  poor  lamb !"  said  Mitty,  rocking  her 
gently  to  and  fro  and  slapping  on  her  back  with  a 
comforting,  maternal  hand.  "We  try  to  keep  her 
awake  till  Barney  gets  in.  He  just  thinks  there's 
nothing  in  the  world  like  his  baby." 

The  dusk  was  beginning  to  subdue  the  brilliancy  of 
sunset,  and  June,  buttoning  herself  into  her  jacket, 
bade  mother  and  child  good  night.  Mitty's  cheerful 
good-bys  followed  her  down  the  passageway,  the 
baby's  now  lusty  cries  drowning  the  last  messages 
which  usually  delay  feminine  farewells. 

Once  outside,  she  walked  rapidly  toward  home, 
avoiding  the  crowds  on  C  Street,  and  flitting,  a  small, 
dark  figure,  through  less  frequented  byways.  Tumult 
was  in  her  heart,  also  the  sense  of  dread  that  had  been 
with  her  ever  since  she  came  to  Virginia  and  knew 
her  old  lover  was  so  near. 

Since  his  marriage  she  had  tried  with  desperate 
persistence  to  uproot  him  from  her  thoughts.  She 
not  only  had  begun  to  realize  his  baseness  of  charac- 
ter, but  the  realization  was  becoming  not  a  matter  of 


OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES    303 

words,  but  a  living  force  which  was  beginning  to 
chill  the  feeling  that  for  so  long  had  held  her  in  its 
grasp.  The  first  symptom  of  a  decline  in  love,  the 
comprehension  and  dislike  of  the  faults  of  the  being 
loved,  had  begun  to  stir  in  her. 

Now  Mitty's  unexpected  revelation  had  upset  this 
more  normal  and  serener  frame  of  mind.  She  felt 
herself  suddenly  swept  backward  toward  a  point  that 
she  had  hoped  was  far  behind.  An  elation  rose  in 
her  that  frightened  her  and  filled  her  with  shame. 
Jerry  sordid,  throwing  her  from  him  for  the  lust  of 
money,  was  a  bearable  thought.  It  was  Jerry  Toving 
and  beloved  that  had  been  too  bitter  to  be  borne. 
And  Mitty  had  said  there  was  no  love  on  either  side — 
he  was  glad  to  have  his  wife  go. 

A  turmoil  of  many  feelings  battled  in  her  and  the 
two  strongest  and  most  violently  opposed  were  fear 
and  joy.  As  she  stole  homeward  through  the  darken- 
ing streets  fear  became  stronger  than  joy.  The  future 
loomed  suddenly  sinister.  Her  loneliness  stretched 
darkly  menacing  before  her.  Rosamund  would  soon 
be  gone — gone  so  far,  never  again  to  be  reached  with, 
an  outstretched  hand  or  a  calling  voice.  And  Jerry 
would  be  there,  close  to  her,  Jerry  who  did  not  love 
his  wife,  and  was  glad  to  have  her  go. 


CHAPTER   III 

SMOLDERING    EMBERS 

Rosamund's  marriage  was  set  for  the  end  of  May. 
There  had  been  great  preparations  for  the  event, 
which  was  to  be  the  most  brilliant  one  of  its  kind 
that  had  ever  taken  place  in  the  town  or  state.  A 
costly  trousseau  had  been  ordered  from  San  Fran- 
cisco. It  was  understood  that  the  wedding  break- 
fast was  to  come  from  the  same  place  and  be  the 
most  sumptuous  and  elaborate  ever  given  in  Vir- 
ginia. Men  heard  these  rumors  with  surprise  and 
once  more  wondered  where  Allen  was  getting  the 
money  "to  splurge  with."  Even  the  astute  Graceys 
were  puzzled.  Only  the  Colonel  was  non-committal 
and  looked  on  quietly. 

"Rosamund's  going  to  have  the  finest  send-off  I 
can  give  her,"  Allen  said  to  him  a  week  before  the 
wedding.  "It's  the  best  I  can  do  for  her.  It's  a 
good  thing  Harrower's  only  here  for  a  few  days." 

The  Colonel  felt  like  adding  it  was  an  extremely 
good  thing,  as  otherwise  Harrower  might  be  called 
upon  to  pay  for  the  splendor  of  his  own  nuptials. 
Twenty-five  thousand  dollars  would  not  go  far  with 
a  man,  who,  with  debts  pressing  on  every  side,  was 
304 


SMOLDERING  EMBERS  305 

spending  money  as  Allen  was  in  giving  Rosamund  a 
fine  "send-off." 

A  week  before  the  day  set  Harrower  arrived  and 
took  up  his  residence  at  the  International  Hotel.  It 
was  a  feverish,  over-crowded  week,  full  of  bustle  and 
fussy  excitement.  There  were  people  constantly  at 
the  Murchison  mansion  and  Allen  was  constantly  out 
of  it.  Had  Harrower  been  more  versed  in  the  ways 
of  the  American  parent  he  would  have  realized  that 
his  future  father-in-law  was  avoiding  him.  But  the 
young  man,  who  thought  everything  in  the  place 
curious  and  more  or  less  incomprehensible,  regarded 
his  behavior  as  merely  another  evidence  of  the  Ameri- 
can father's  habit  of  letting  his  children  manage 
their  own  affairs.  He  did  not  like  Allen  and  wanted 
as  quickly  as  possible  to  get  through  the  spectacular 
marriage,  and  take  Rosamund  away  to  the  peace  of 
his  ancestral  acres  and  the  simple  country  life  they 
both  loved. 

To  June  this  last  week  was  a  whirl  of  days  and 
nights,  reeling  by  over  a  dragging,  ceaseless  sense 
of  pain..  To  both  girls  the  separation  was  bitter,  but 
Rosamund,  passing  into  the  arms  of  an  adored  hus- 
band, for  the  first  time  in  a  life  of  unselfishness,  did 
not  enter  into  her  sister's  feelings.  She  spoke  often 
of  the  visit  June  was  to  pay  them  next  winter.  Lionel 
was  as  anxious  as  Rosamund  for  her  to  come. 
The  bride  and  groom  were  to  travel  on  the  con- 
tinent for  part  of  the  summer  and  then  visit  his 
people,  introducing  Rosamund  to  her  new  relations. 
But  by  November  they  would  be  settled  in  Monk's 
Court — that  was  Lionel's  home — and  then  June  was 


306  THE  PIONEER 

to  come.  Rosamund  even  hinted  at  a  cousin  of 
Lionel's,  a  "very  decent  chap"  Lionel  had  said,  who 
was  rich  and  single  and  "just  the  right  sort  for  June." 

There  were  six  months  between  now  and  then,  six 
short  months  to  Rosamund  beginning  a  brilliant  new 
life  with  her  lover;  and  six  long  months  to  June 
alone  in  the  mining  city,  surrounded  by  the  gray 
desert. 

The  wedding  day  came  and  the  excitement  quieted 
down  to  the  sudden  hush  of  that  solemn  moment 
when  the  voice  of  a  priest  proclaims  a  man  and 
a  woman  one.  The  ceremony  was  performed  in  the 
house,  Lionel,  after  some  qualms,  having  agreed  to 
it.  June  stood  beside  her  sister  in  the  alcove  of  the 
bay-window  and  listened  to  the  words  which  pledged 
her  to  a  man  of  another  country  and  to  a  life  in  a 
distant  land.  Rosamund  was  pale  as  she  turned  from 
the  clergyman  to  greet  the  guests  that  pressed  round 
her.  It  was  a  sacred  moment  to  her,  the  giving  of 
herself  in  its  fullest  and  deepest  significance  to  the 
man  she  loved,  till  death  should  part  them. 

It  was  beyond  doubt  a  very  brilliant  wedding.  The 
house,  hung  with  flowers — every  blossom  sent  up  from 
San  Francisco  wrapped  in  cotton  wool — lost  its  bare, 
half-furnished  look  and  became  a  bower.  The  cos- 
tumes of  the  women — many  imported  from  Paris — 
were  in  all  cases  costly  and  in  some  beautiful.  The 
men,  who  squeezed  past  one  another  on  the  stairway 
and  drank  champagne  in  corners,  stood  for  more 
wealth  than  the  whole  of  the  far  West  had  known 
till  the  discovery  of  the  Cresta  Plata  and  the  Big 
Bonanza.  The  millions  that  the  arid  state  was  pour- 


SMOLDERING  EMBERS  307 

ing  out  in  a  silver  stream  were  well  represented  in 
the  Murchison  mansion  that  afternoon. 

The  breakfast  seemed  to  June  a  never-ending  pro- 
cession of  raised  champagne  glasses  and  toasts.  She 
had  a  vision  of  the  Colonel's  white  head  bent  toward 
Rosamund  over  the  low-bowled,  thin-stemmed  glass 
in  which  the  golden  bubbles  rose,  and  of  the  husky 
note  in  his  voice  as  he  wished  her  joy.  She  saw  her 
father,  with  reddened  face  and  bloodshot  eyes,  rise 
to  his  feet,  and  with  the  southern  fervency  of  phrase, 
which  he  had  never  lost,  bid  his  daughter  God-speed 
and  farewell,  the  glass  shaking  in  his  hand.  Harrower 
stood  up  beside  his  bride,  her  listening  face  fair  and 
spiritual  between  the  drooping  folds  of  her  veil,  and 
said  a  few  words  of  thanks,  halting  and  simple,  but 
a  man's  words  nevertheless. 

Then  the  time  came  for  the  bride  to  go  up  stairs 
for  the  change  of  dress.  The  guests  made  a  path 
for  her,  and  June  followed  the  tall  figure  with  its 
long,  glimmering  train. 

They  said  little  as  Rosamund  took  off  her  wedding 
finery  and  donned  her  traveling  dress.  But  at  the 
door  of  the  room  they  clasped  each  other  in  a  dumb 
embrace,  neither  daring  to  speak.  As  she  descended 
Rosamund  drew  her  veil  down  to  hide  her  tears.  Her 
lips  were  quivering,  her  heart  was  rent  with  the 
pain  of  the  parting.  June  came  behind  her,  calm  and 
dry-eyed,  the  bleak  sense  of  depression  that  she  had 
felt  for  weeks  closing  round  her  black  and  heavy. 
Part  of  herself — the  strong,  brave  part — seemed  to 
be  torn  away  from  her  with  the  going  of  the  sister, 
upon  whom  she  had  always  leaned. 


3o8  THE  PIONEER 

She  stood  on  the  balcony  and  waved  her  hand  as 
the  carriages  drove  away  toward  the  station.  Most 
of  the  guests  went  with  them  to  see  the  bride  and 
groom  off.  A  stream  of  people  poured  down  the 
stairs,  laughing,  chattering,  calling  back  good-bys 
to  June,  as  she  stood  by  the  door,  pale  but  resolutely 
smiling.  She  noticed  the  three  tall  figures  of  the 
Colonel  and  the  Gracey  brothers  as  they  crossed  the 
street  together,  the  Colonel  turning  to  wave  his  hand 
to  her.  Her  father  had  gone  before  them.  Finally 
everybody  had  left,  and  she  turned  slowly  back  into 
the  deserted  house. 

How  empty  is  was!  Her  footsteps  echoed  in  it.  She 
passed  into  the  parlor,  into  which,  from  the  broad  bay- 
window  the  afternoon  light  poured  coldly.  Linen  had 
been  stretched  over  the  carpet,  and  on  this  white  and 
shining  expanse  the  broken  heads  of  roses  and  torn 
leaves  lay  here  and  there.  The  flowers  in  the  recess 
where  the  bride  and  groom  had  stood  were  already 
fading,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with  their  dying 
sweetness. 

She  looked  into  the  dining-room  at  the  expanse  of 
the  rifled  table,  where  the  mounds  of  fruit  had  been 
broken  down  by  eager  hands  and  the  champagne 
bubbles  rose  languidly  in  the  half-filled  glasses.  There 
were  no  servants  about  and  the  perfect  silence  of  the 
house  was  more  noticeable  in  this  scene  of  domestic 
disorder.  She  had  ascended  the  stairs  and  was  look- 
ing out  of  a  back  window  when  she  saw  its  explana- 
tion. From  the  kitchen  entrance  the  servants,  headed 
by  the  chef  brought  up  from  San  Francisco  for  the 


SMOLDERING  EMBERS  309 

wedding,  stealthily  emerged.  Struggling  into  their 
coats  and  hastily  jamming  on  their  hats  they  ran  in 
straggling  line  in  the  direction  of  the  depot,  intent, 
as  the  rest  of  the  world,  on  seeing  the  bride  depart. 
Last  of  all  the  Chinaman  issued  forth,  and  setting 
his  soft  felt  wide-awake  on  his  carefully  uprolled 
queue,  stole  with  soft-footed  haste  after  them. 

Nothing  can  be  more  full  of  the  note  of  human 
desolation  than  an  occupied  house  suddenly  vacated. 
June  passed  from  room  to  room  feeling  the  silence  as 
part  of  the  depression  that  weighed  on  her.  Through 
the  windows  she  could  see  the  wild,  morose  land- 
scape, beginning  to  take  on  the  hectic  strangeness  of 
tint  that  marked  its  sunset  aspect.  Its  weird  hostility 
was  suddenly  intensified.  It  combined  with  the  silence 
to  augment  her  sense  of  loneliness  to  the  point  of  the 
unendurable.  She  ran  down  the  stairs  and  out  on  to 
the  curve  of  balcony  which  extended  from  the  front 
door. 

Some  children  were  playing  in  the  street  below,  and 
their  voices  came  to  her  with  a  note  of  cheer.  Lean- 
ing listlessly  against  the  balustrade  she  looked  up  the 
street,  wondering  when  her  father  would  be  back.  She 
had  ceased  to  note  his  comings  and  goings,  but  this 
evening  she  watched  for  his  return  as  she  might  have 
done  in  her  childhood.  There  was  no  sign  of  him, 
and  might  not  be  for  hours.  After  the  train  left  he 
would  probably  range  about  the  town,  whose  night 
aspect  he  loved. 

She  turned  her  head  in  the  opposite  direction,  and 
her  eyes  became  suddenly  fixed  and  her  body  stiffened. 


310  THE  PIONEER 

A  man  was  coming  down  the  street,  swinging  lightly 
forward,  looking  over  the  tops  of  the  houses  toward 
the  reddening  peak  of  the  Sugar  Loaf.  There  was 
only  one  man  in  Virginia  with  that  natural  elegance 
of  form,  that  carriage  full  of  distinction  and  grace. 

For  the  first  moment  he  did  not  see  her,  and  in 
that  moment  June  felt  none  of  the  secret  elation  that 
had  been  hers  in  the  past  at  sudden  sight  of  him. 
Instead,  a  thrill  of  repugnance  passed  through  her,  to 
be  followed  by  a  shrinking  dread.  She  moved  softly 
back  from  the  balustrade,  intending  to  slip  into  the 
hallway,  when  he  turned  his  head  and  saw  her. 

The  old  pleasure  leaped  into  his  face.  She  saw  that 
he  pronounced  her  name.  He  flung  a  cautious  look 
about  him  and  then  crossed  the  road.  With  his  hand 
on  the  gate  he  gazed  up  and  said,  with  something  of 
secrecy  in  his  air  and  voice : 

"Have  they  all  gone?" 

June's  affirmative  was  low.  Her  repugnance  had 
vanished.  Her  desire  to  retreat  had  been  paralyzed 
by  the  first  sound  of  his  voice. 

"And  they've  left  you  all  alone?" 

The  tone  was  soft  with  the  caressing  quality  that 
to  Jerry  was  second  nature  when  an  attractive  woman 
listened. 

"Yes,  they  went  to  the  station  to  see  them  off.  I 
didn't  want  to  go,  so  I  stayed,"  she  returned  stam- 
meringly. 

Jerry  opened  the  gate. 

"Can  I  come  up?"  he  said  in  the  lowest  tone  that 
would  reach  her  ear.  "I  hate  to  think  of  you  all  by 
yourself  up  there,  and  Rosamund  gone." 


SMOLDERING  EMBERS  311 

June  looked  at  him  and  murmured  an  affirmative 
that  he  could  not  have  heard,  but  he  put  his  foot  on 
the  lowest  step.  She  dropped  her  eyes  to  her  hands 
resting  on  the  balustrade,  while  the  beating  of  her 
heart  increased  with  his  ascending  footfall.  When 
he  had  reached  her  side  she  was  trembling.  In  those 
few  sentences  from  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  he  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  obliterated  the  past  year.  The  words 
were  ordinary  enough,  but  his  eyes,  his  tone,  his  man- 
ner as  he  now  stood  beside  her,  were  those  of  the  old 
Jerry,  before  Mercedes  had  stolen  him  away. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  and  immediately  dropped 
them.  The  soft  scrutiny  of  his  gaze — the  privileged 
gaze  that  travels  over  and  dwells  on  a  loved  face, 
with  no  one  to  challenge  its  right — increased  her 
flushed  distress.  Jerry,  too,  was  moved.  For  both  of 
them  the  moment  was  fraught  with  danger,  and  he 
knew  it  better  than  she. 

"You're  all  tired  out,"  he  said,  with  his  tender  tone 
slightly  hoarse.  "Let's  go  in  ancl  sit  down." 

She  led  the  way  through  the  hall,  now  beginning 
to  grow  dim  with  the  first  evening  shadows,  into  the 
long,  bare  parlor.  There  was  a  sofa  drawn  up  against 
the  wall  and  on  this  she  sat,  while  Jerry  placed  a  small 
gilded  chair  close  in  front  of  her. 

"How  deserted  it  looks !"  he  said,  gazing  about  the 
room.  "I  suppose  everybody  was  here?  I  saw  a  per- 
fect mob  of  people  going  down  to  the  station." 

"Yes,  everybody  went,  even  the  servants.  They 
stole  away  without  telling  me.  They  didn't  even  wait 
to  clear  the  things  off  the  table.  That's  why  it's  so 
quiet." 


3i2  THE  PIONEER 

Both  spoke  rapidly  to  hide  their  agitation.  The 
woman's  was  more  apparent  than  the  man's.  She 
kept  her  eyes  down  and  Jerry  watched  her  as  she 
spoke.  It  was  the  first  time  for  over  a  year  that  he 
had  had  a  chance  to  scrutinize  her  at  will.  She  had 
changed  greatly.  Her  freshness  was  gone,  her  face 
looked  smaller  than  ever  and  to-day  was  almost  hag- 
gard. But  Jerry  had  had  his  fill  of  beauty.  She 
loved  him  still,  and  she  was  the  one  woman  of  the 
three  he  had  loved.  Ever  since  Mercedes  had  left 
him  he  had  been  telling  himself  this,  and  the  thought 
had  been  taking  fiery  possession  of  him,  growing 
more  dominant  each  day. 

"Rosamund's  made  a  fine  marriage,  hasn't  she?" 
he  went  on,  with  more  fluency.  "Some  day  she'll  be 
Lady  Rosamund,  and  won't  she  be  a  stunning  Lady 
Rosamund?  She's  made  for  it.  Do  you  remember 
the  time  when  I  was  up  at  Foleys  and  you  had  the 
garden  there?  What  a  lot  has  happened  in  these  last 
four  years." 

"Yes,  a  lot,"  June  assented.  A  broken  rose-bud  lay 
on  the  sofa  beside  her.  She  picked  it  up  and  began 
to  open  its  leaves. 

"And  who'd  have  supposed  then  that  Rosamund 
was  going  to  live  in  England,  and  some  day  be  Lady 
Rosamund?"  There  was  a  slight  pause,  and  he  added 
in  a  lower  voice,  as  if  speaking  to  himself:  "Who'd 
have  supposed  any  of  the  things  were  going  to  happen 
that  did?" 

June  pressed  apart  the  rose  petals  in  silence. 

"Who'd   have    supposed   I   would   have   done   the 


SMOLDERING  EMBERS  313 

things  that  I  have  done?"  he  said,  speaking  in  the 
same  low  voice,  but  now  it  was  suddenly  full  of 
significance. 

He  was  looking  directly  at  her.  His  eyes  called 
hers,  and  with  the  rose-bud  still  in  her  hand,  she 
looked  into  them  for  a  long  motionless  moment.  It 
was  a  look  of  revelation.  He  saw  her  will,  like  a 
trapped  bird,  fluttering  and  struggling  in  his  grasp. 

"You're  just  the  same,  June,"  he  said  on  a  rising 
breath. 

"No,  no,"  she  faltered,  "I've  changed  in  every  way. 
You  don't  know  how  I've  changed.  I'm  quite  a  dif- 
ferent person." 

"But  you  haven't  lost  faith  in  me?"  he  said,  lean- 
ing nearer  to  her.  , 

She  drew  back,  pressing  her  shoulders  against  the 
sofa,  and  gazing  at  him  with  a  sort  of  suspended  ap- 
prehension. He  did  not  seem  to  notice  her  shrinking 
and  went  on  impetuously: 

"You  understand  if  there  were  mistakes  and  errors 
and — and — and — miserable  misunderstandings,  that  I 
was  led  into  them.  I  was  a  blind  fool.  Mercedes 
never  cared  for  me.  She  told  me  so  three  months 
after  we  were  married.  She  left  me  of  her  own  free 
will.  She  was  glad  to  go,  and  I — well,  I'll  tell  you 
the  truth,  June — I  wasn't  sorry." 

His  face  was  full  of  angry  confession.  He  had  hr  d 
no  intention  of  talking  to  her  in  this  way,  but  now  he 
suddenly  wanted  to  reinstate  himself  in  her  good 
opinion  and  be  soothed  by  her  sympathy.  She  stopped 
him. 


3I4  THE  PIONEER 

"Don't  talk  about  it.  It's  done.  If  you  made  a 
mistake,  it's  done,  and  that's  the  end.  Oh,  Jerry, 
don't  talk  about  it." 

She  rose  to  her  feet;  the  room  was  getting  dim. 
Outside  the  royal  dyes  of  sunset  had  faded  from  the 
sky  and  the  twilight  was  softly  settling. 

"I'll  have  to  light  the  gas,"  she  stammered.  "The 
servants  haven't  come  in  yet.  This  half-light  makes 
me  blue." 

Jerry  stood  aside  as  she  went  to  the  mantel  and 
from  among  the  embanked  flowers  drew  the  match- 
box. The  chandelier  hung  just  above  his  head  draped 
with  garlands  of  smilax.  It  was  high  and  as  June 
came  forward  with  the  lighted  match,  he  stretched  out 
his  hand  to  take  it  from  her.  They  were  close  to- 
gether under  the  chandelier  as  their  hands  touched. 
Each  felt  the  tremulous  cold  of  the  other's  fingers 
and  the  match  dropped,  a  red  spark,  between  them. 

With  suddenly-caught  breath  Jerry  stretched  his 
arms  out  to  clasp  her  but  she  drew  back,  her  hands 
outspread  before  her,  crying, 

"Don't,  Jerry,  don't!     Oh,  please  don't!" 

She  backed  away  from  him  and  he  followed  her, 
not  speaking,  his  face  set,  his  arms  ready  to  enfold  her. 
She  was  stopped  in  her  recoil  by  the  sofa,  and  stand- 
ing against  it  she  looked  at  him,  with  agonized  plead- 
ing, whispering, 

"Don't,  Jerry.  Oh,  please  go.  Please  go  and  leave 
me !  You  loved  me  once." 

He  stopped,  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  moment  of 
stricken  irresolution,  then  turned  without  a  word  and 
left  the  room. 


SMOLDERING  EMBERS  315 

June  fell  on  the  sofa,  her  face  in  her  hands.  She 
heard  his  step  in  the  passage,  then  sharp  on  every 
stair  as  he  ran  down  to  the  street.  In  the  darkening 
room  she  sat  trembling,  her  face  hidden,  alone  in  the 
empty  house. 


CHAPTER  IV 
A  WOMAN'S  "NO" 

Rion  Gracey  called  on  June  as  the  Colonel  had 
suggested,  called  again  the  week  after,  and  in  a  short 
time  formed  a  habit  of  dropping  in  every  Sunday 
evening.  He  generally  found  the  Colonel  there,  and 
in  the  first  stages  of  reopening  the  friendship  the 
elder  man  had  been  very  convenient  in  relieving  the 
meetings  of  the  constraint  which  was  bound  to  hover 
over  them.  But  as  the  spring  Sundays  passed  and 
the  constraint  wore  away,  Rion  did  not  so  thoroughly 
appreciate  the  presence  of  his  friend.  With  surprise 
at  his  own  subtility — for  the  mining  man  was  of  those 
who  go  forcefully  over  obstacles,  not  around  them — 
he  discovered  what  evenings  the  Colonel  did  not  dine 
with  June  and  began  to  make  his  appearance  then. 

He  generally  found  her  alone.  She  had  made  no 
effort  to  enlarge  her  acquaintance,  and  after  the  wed- 
ding her  father  was  constantly  in  San  Francisco  or 
at  more  congenial  haunts  in  the  town.  It  raised  agi- 
tating hopes  in  Rion  to  see  that  she  was  openly 
and  unaffectedly  glad  to  see  him.  There  was  a  con- 
fidence, a  something  of  trust  and  reliance  in  her 
manner  that — for  him — had  not  been  there  before. 
He  thought  she  had  never  been  so  winning  as  she  was 


A  WOMAN'S  "NO"  317 

on  these  lonely  evenings,  when  her  face  lighted  at  the 
sight  of  him,  and  her  smile  was  full  of  a  soft  wel- 
come, touched  with  girlish  shyness. 

Women  like  to  think  that  the  beloved  member  of 
their  sex  plays  so  filling  and  absorbing  a  part  in  the 
life  of  the  enslaved  man,  that  all  other  matters  are 
crowded  from  his  mind.  The  interests  of  business 
dwindle  to  the  vanishing  point,  the  claims  of  friend- 
ship have  no  place  in  a  heart  out  of  which  all  else 
has  been  pushed.  Love,  while  it  lasts,  holds  him  in 
a  spell,  and  then,  if  only  then,  the  woman  is  a  reign- 
ing goddess. 

Rion  Gracey  was  not  of  this  order  of  man.  He 
had  loved  June  since  his  meeting  with  her  at  Foleys, 
but  he  had  led  a  life  so  full  of  work  and  business,  so 
preoccupied  with  a  man's  large  affairs,  that  there 
were  periods  of  weeks  when  he  never  thought  of 
her.  Yet  she  had  been  and  was  the  only  woman  he 
had  ever  truly  cared  for  and  ardently  desired.  Be- 
fore his  meeting  with  her  women  had  been  merely 
incidents  in  his  onward  career.  When,  during  the 
summer  at  Foleys,  he  had  come  to  know  her,  he  had 
realized  how  different  was  the  place  she  would  have 
taken  in  his  life  from  the  transitory  interests  which 
were  all  he  had  so  far  known.  Then,  for  the  first 
time,  he  understood  what  a  genuine  passion  means 
to  a  genuine  man. 

When  she  had  refused  to  marry  him  he  had  left 
her  sore  and  angry.  But  the  crowded  life  in  which 
he  was  so  prominent  a  figure  soon  filled  with  vital 
interests  every  moment  of  his  days.  His  wound  was 
not  healed,  but  he  forgot  its  ache.  He  rigorously 


318  THE  PIONEER 

pushed  the  thought  of  her  from  his  mind.  She  was 
not  for  him,  and  to  think  of  her  was  weakness.  Then 
he  heard  a  rumor  that  Barclay  was  an  admirer  of 
hers,  and  he  shut  his  mouth  and  tried  harder  than 
ever  not  to  think. 

But  time  passed  and  June  did  not  marry.  Jerry, 
given  his  freedom,  married  Mercedes.  Rion,  a  man 
to  whom  small  gossip  was  dull,  a  thing  to  give  no 
heed  to  as  one  walked  forward,  heard  none  of  the  talk 
of  Jerry's  change  of  heart.  It  filtered  slowly  into 
Virginia,  which  was  across  the  mountains  in  another 
state,  and  occupied  in  a  big  way  with  big  matters. 
Even  Barney  Sullivan,  who  was  well  primed  with 
San  Francisco  gossip  after  Mitty's  return  from  visits, 
"down  below,"  did  not  mention  to  his  chief  anything 
of  Miss  Allen  and  Jerry  Barclay. 

When  he  heard  she  was  coming  to  Virginia  the 
love-obsession  that  the  woman  likes  to  believe  in, 
came  near  taking  possession  of  him.  For  a  day  or 
two  he  was  shaken  out  of  the  current  of  his  every- 
day life  and  found  it  hard  to  attend  to  his  work. 
The  thought  of  seeing  her  again  filled  this  self-con- 
tained and  masterful  man  with  tremors  such  as  a 
girl  might  feel  at  the  coming  of  her  lover.  The  first 
time  he  saw  her  on  C  Street  he  found  it  difficult  to 
collect  his  thoughts  for  hours  afterward. 

The  change  in  her,  the  loss  of  what  good  looks  she 
had  once  possessed,  did  not  diminish  or  alter  his  feel- 
ing. If  he  had  been  asked,  if  he  thought  her  pretty 
he  would  have  honestly  said  he  did  not  know,  he  had 
never  thought  about  it.  He  did  not  know  how  old  she 
was,  nor  could  he  cite  any  special  points  of  beauty 


A  WOMAN'S  "NO"  319 

that  his  eye,  as  a  lover,  had  noted.  Her  only  physi- 
cal attribute  that  had  impressed  him  was  her  small- 
ness,  and  this  he  had  noticed  because  in  walking  with 
her,  her  head  only  came  to  a  little  above  his  shoul- 
der, and  he  was  sometimes  forced  to  bend  down  to 
hear  her. 

He  had  been  wondering  what  to  do  when  the  Colo- 
nel asked  him  to  call.  Unless  the  suggestion  had 
come  from  some  one  in  authority  he  never  would 
have  dared  to  go,  for  he  was  a  lover  at  once  proud 
and  shy,  not  of  the  kind  who  batter  and  browbeat 
a  woman  into  acquiescence.  Her  first  meeting  with 
him,  dominated  as  it  was  by  mutual  embarrassment, 
at  least  showed  him  that  she  was  not  displeased  to 
see  him.  Since  then  the  meetings  had  been  frequent, 
her  pleasure  at  his  coming  open  for  any  one  to  see, 
and  Rion's  hopes,  in  the  beginning  but  faint,  had 
waxed  high  and  exultant. 

To  June,  he  and  the  Colonel  were  the  only  two 
figures  of  an  intimate  interest  in  her  life.  He  seemed 
to  fill  its  emptiness,  to  cheer  its  isolation.  She  looked 
forward  to  his  coming,  hardly  knowing  why,  except 
that  a  sense  of  comfort  and  strength  came  with  him. 
He  was  often  in  her  thoughts,  and  she  found  herself 
storing  up  small  incidents  in  her  daily  life  to  tell  him, 
for  no  reason  but  that  his  unspoken  sympathy  was 
pleasant.  She  felt  the  consciousness — so  sweet  to 
women — that  all  which  concerned  her  was  of  mo- 
ment to  him.  Now  and  then  the  Colonel's  past  asser- 
tions that  the  girl  who  married  Rion  Gracey  would 
be  happy,  rose  in  her  mind.  She  begar  to  under- 
stand that  it  might  be  so,  and  what  it  would  mean. 


320  THE  PIONEER 

this  strong  man's  love  and  protection  guarding  a 
woman  against  the  storm  and  struggle  of  the  world, 
with  which  she  personally  was  so  unfitted  to  cope. 

One  evening,  a  month  after  the  wedding,  he  found 
her  sitting  on  the  balcony  reading.  It  had  been 
warm  weather  for  a  day  or  two  and  the  windows  and 
doors  of  the  lower  floor  were  thrown  open,  showing 
the  receding  vista  of  dimly-lighted  rooms  and  pas- 
sages. She  was  dressed  in  white  and  had  a  book 
he  had  given  her  lying  open  across  her  knees.  As 
the  gate  clicked  to  his  opening  hand  she  started  and 
looked  down,  then  leaned  forward,  her  face  flush- 
ing, her  lips  parting  with  a  smile  of  greeting.  It 
was  a  look  that  might  have  planted  hope  in  any  man's 
heart. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  she  said,  gazing  down 
on  him  as  he  ascended.  "I  was  just  wondering  if  you 
would.  When  you  want  a  thing  very  much  it  never 
seems  to  happen.  But  now  you've  happened,  so  I 
never  can  say  that  again." 

"Yes,  I've  happened,"  he  answered  with  the  phleg- 
matic air  with  which  he  hid  his  shyness.  "Are  you 
all  alone  again?" 

"Yes,  quite  alone.  But  I've  been  reading  the  book 
you  gave  me  and  it's  made  me  forget  all  about  it. 
I've  nearly  finished  it.  It's  a  splendid  book." 

"I'll  get  you  another  to-morrow,"  he  said,  leaning 
with  his  back  against  the  railing  and  looking  at  her 
with  a  fond  intentness  of  which  he  was  unconscious. 
She  was  pretty  to-night  in  her  white  dress  and  with 
her  cheeks  flushed  with  pleasure  at  his  coming.  Riori, 


A  WOMAN'S  "NO"  321 

who  did  not  notice  looks,  noticed  this,  and  it  stirred 
his  heart. 

"Let's  go  in,"  he  said.  "There's  a  sort  of  chill  in 
the  air.  You  mustn't  catch  cold.  If  you  got  sick 
you'd  have  to  be  sent  down  to  San  Francisco.  There's 
no  proper  person  here  to  take  care  of  you." 

She  rose  and  stood  in  front  of  him,  half  turned  to 

go- 

"Wouldn't  that  be  dreadful!"  she  said  with  careless 
lightness.  "I  wouldn't  go.  Uncle  Jim  would  have 
to  give  up  his  work  on  the  Cresta  Plata  and  take  care 
of  me." 

"We  wouldn't  want  you  to  go,"  he  answered,  as 
he  followed  her  into  the  hall.  "Anyway,  I'd  want  to 
keep  you  here." 

She  did  not  appear  to  notice  the  change  of 
pronoun,  nor  the  fact  that  his  voice  had  dropped  on 
the  last  sentence.  With  her  white  dress  sweeping 
spectrally  before  him  he  followed  her  into  the  dim 
parlor. 

Something  in  the  intimacy  of  the  still,  soft  dusk, 
and  the  sudden  wakening  into  imperious  dominance 
of  his  feeling  for  her,  made  him  move  away  from 
her  and  about  the  room.  Through  the  open  door 
of  the  dining-room  he  saw  the  white  square  of  the 
table  glimmering  in  the  twilight,  with  one  place  set, 
the  crumpled  napkin  on  the  cloth,  the  single  wine 
glass,  its  lower  half  dark  with  wine,  a  scattering  of 
crimson  cherries  dotting  the  glaze  of  a  plate. 

"Did  you  dine  alone,  too?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  father's  dining  in  town  to-night  and  you  or 


322  THE  PIONEER 

Black  Dan  sent  the  Colonel  into  Empire  till  to- 
morrow." 

She  looked  round  at  him  over  her  shoulder,  the 
lighted  match  in  her  hand  sending  a  glow  over  her 
face,  which  was  half-plaintive,  half-laughing. 

"It's  very  mean  of  you  to  send  the  Colonel  away  on 
nights  when  he  dines  with  me." 

"Well,  honestly,  I  never  thought  about  it,"  stam- 
mered Rion,  trying  to  look  contrite,  but  glad  in  his 
heart  that  the  Colonel  was,  for  this  evening  at  least, 
well  out  of  the  way.  "And,  anyway,  it  was  Dan  who 
sent  him.  He  thinks  there  are  certain  things  nobody 
can  do  as  well  as  Parrish." 

"Of  course  he's  right  about  that,"  she  answered. 
"But  he  ought  to  remember  that  one  of  the  things  the 
Colonel  does  best  is  to  be  company  for  me." 

The  gas  was  lit  and  she  was  adjusting  the  shade  of 
a  lamp  on  a  side  table.  As  she  spoke  she  looked  over 
the  bright  chimney  at  him,  with  the  smile  that  held 
in  it  so  much  of  melancholy. 

"It's  pretty  dreary  for  you  here,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

Her  lips  suddenly  trembled  and  she  bit  the  under 
one.  For  a  moment  her  control  was  shaken,  and  to 
hide  it  she  bent  over  the  lamp,  pretending  to  arrange 
the  wick.  The  pause  was  heavy  till  she  said  in  her 
usual  tone: 

"Well,  lately  it  has  been  rather  lonely.  It's  hard  to 
get  used  to  Rosamund's  not  being  here." 

She  crossed  the  room  to  the  sofa  and  sat  down  in 
the  corner  of  it,  Rion  taking  a  chair  near  her.  As 
she  patted  her  skirt  into  satisfactory  folds,  she  said, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  her  arranging  hand, 


A  WOMAN'S  "NO"  323 

"It  takes  a  person  a  long  time  to  get  used  to  some 
one  they  care  for  going  so  far  off.  I  sometimes 
wonder  if  they  ever  do." 

He  looked  at  her,  murmuring  some  casual  response, 
his  mind  not  on  his  words.  Against  the  sheer  white 
of  her  dress  a  locket  she  wore  suspended  round  her 
neck  by  a  narrow  black  velvet,  caught  and  lost  the 
light  as  her  breast  rose  and  fell.  He  was  conscious 
of  its  regular  gleam,  of  the  darkness  of  her  hand 
against  the  white  folds  of  her  skirt,  of  the  slim  small- 
ness  of  her  figure  reclining  in  the  angle  of  the  sofa. 

Another  pause  fell  between  them,  this  time  uncom- 
fortable with  a  sense  of  extreme  constraint;  June's 
hand  ceased  moving  and  joined  its  companion  in  her 
lap.  She  raised  her  eyes  timidly  and  met  his,  intent, 
motionless,  fixed  deeply  upon  her.  The  locket  rose 
brightly  into  the  light  on  a  sharply  caught  breath. 

"Why  did  Black  Dan  send  the  Colonel  into  Em- 
pire?" she  faltered. 

"Do  you  remember  what  I  asked  you  more  than 
two  years  ago  in  San  Francisco?"  was  his  answer. 

She  tried  to  temporize  and  said  nervously, 

"Two  years  back  is  a  long  way  to  remember." 

"I  asked  you  to  marry  me,  and  you  said  no.  Do 
you  remember?" 

She  nodded. 

"I'm  going  to  ask  you  the  same  thing  again." 

"Oh,  Rion !"  she  murmured  in  an  imploring  under- 
tone. 

"I  can  only  say  the  same  things  I  said  then.  I'm 
not  a  smooth  talker,  like  some  of  the  men  you've 
known.  I  want  you  for  my  wife,  and  I'll  do  every- 


324  THE  PIONEER 

thing  I  can  to  make  you  happy.  That's  about  the 
whole  thing." 

She  rose  with  some  broken  words  he  did  not  catch 
and  passed  round  behind  the  sofa,  where  she  stood, 
her  hand  resting  on  the  back,  her  face  averted.  He 
rose,  too,  but  made  no  attempt  to  approach  her. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  women,"  he  continued. 
"I  don't  know  how  to  talk  to  them.  You're  the  only 
one  of  them  I've  ever  felt  this  way  to ;  and  I'm  pretty 
sure  I'll  never  feel  so  to  any  other.  I  love  you.  I've 
tried  to  stop  it  and  I  can't.  It's  stronger  than  I  am." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  after  waiting  a  moment, 
he  said,  his  voice  slightly  hoarse: 

"Well,  say  something  to  me." 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  she  murmured,  her 
face  turned  away. 

He  made  a  step  toward  the  sofa,  and  as  she  heard 
him,  she  drew  back  as  if  frightened.  He  stopped  in- 
stantly, regarding  her  with  a  sudden  frowning  fixity 
of  suspicion  and  anger. 

"Don't  you  care  for  me,  June?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course — so  much,  so  much  more  than 
I  used  to.  But,  Rion— " 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  one  of  her  hands 
raised  as  if  to  ward  him  off.  He  started  forward  to 
seize  the  hand,  but  she  quickly  drew  it  back  and 
clasped  it  round  the  locket. 

"Not  that  way,"  she  faltered,  "not  the  way  you 
want." 

"Are  you  going  to  say  no  to  me  again?" 

"Oh,  Rion !"  she  pleaded. 


A  WOMAN'S  "NO"  325 

"Do  you  care  for  me?  Answer.  Don't  beat  about 
the  bush." 

"I  care  for  you  immensely.  I've  always  cared  for 
you,  but  lately  it's  been  something  quite  different, 
something  much  deeper.  You've  been  so  kind  to  me." 

"Never  mind  about  my  kindness,  do  you  love  me?" 

"I — but — no — not — "  she  stammered  a  series  of  dis- 
connected words,  and  came  to  a  stop. 

He  took  a  step  nearer  to  her  and  said  in  an  authori- 
tative voice,  "Answer  me.  Will  you  be  my  wife?" 

"I  can't,"  she  said,  in  the  lowest  tone  he  could  hear. 

"You  can't?    Then  it's  no  again?" 

"It's  not  exactly  no.  Or  if  it  is,  it's  not  the  same 
kind  of  no  it  was  before." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?  There's  only  one  kind 
of  no  in  a  matter  like  this." 

"Well,  this  is  a  different  kind.  It  must  be  a  dif- 
ferent kind.  It  mustn't  be  a  no  that  makes  us  stran- 
gers as  it  did  before." 

He  gave  a  suppressed  exclamation,  angry  and  vio- 
lent, and  turned  to  the  table  for  his  hat. 

"A  man's  not  a  fool  or  a  child,"  he  said,  "to  be 
spoken  to  like  that." 

She  followed  his  movements,  saw  him  stretch  his 
hand  for  the  hat,  and  cried, 

"Oh,  don't  go — don't  go  this  way — don't  be  angry 
with  me — let  me  explain." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  a  face  grown  cold 
and  hard. 

"What  is  there  to  explain?  I  want  you  to  be  my 
wife.  You  don't  want  to.  That's  the  whole  matter." 


326  THE  PIONEER 

"Oh,  no  it  isn't.  It's  not  like  it  was  the  other 
time.  I  didn't  care  then,  but  I  do  now,  more  than 
you  think,  much  more.  Everything's  different.  I 
can't  bear  to  have  you  go.  I  can't  bear  to  lose  you." 

"Is  that  the  reason  you've  looked  so  pleased  when- 
ever I  came?  Was  that  the  reason  you  told  me  just 
now  that  you  wanted  me  to  come  so  much  you  didn't 
think  I  would  ?  I've  been  a  fool,  no  doubt,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  a  smarter  man  than  I  might  have 
thought  you  meant  it." 

She  flushed  deeply,  up  to  her  hair. 

"I  did  mean  it,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Hope  sprang  to  his  face  and  he  came  close  to  her: 

"Then  if  you  meant  it,  say  you  love  me,  say  you'll 
marry  me.  That's  the  only  thing  I  want  you  to  say 
to  me." 

She  shrank  away  again  and  without  waiting  for 
her  answer,  he  turned — the  light  gone  from  his  face 
— and  reached  for  his  hat. 

"Don't  go;  don't  go,"  she  begged.  "There  are 
things  I  want  to  say  to  you," — but  this  time  he  did  not 
let  false  hopes  beguile  him. 

"Good-by,"  he  said  gruffly,  and  walked  to  the 
door. 

As  he  passed  her  she  slipped  round  the  sofa  and 
came  after  him : 

"It  mustn't  be  good-by.  Say  good  night.  I  won't 
let  you  say  good-by." 

"It's  good-by  this  time,  young  woman,"  he  said 
grimly.  "Good-by  for  keeps." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  that  stopped 
liim.  With  an  ,ajj  p/  .enforced  patience  he  stood,  his 


A  WOMAN'S  "NO"  327 

face  turned  from  her,  waiting.  For  a  moment  she 
did  not  speak,  and  he  said: 

"Come,  what  is  it?  If  it's  that  I'm  to  dangle  round 
as  I've  been  doing  for  the  past  two  months,  let's  not 
waste  time  over  that;  I'm  not  that  kind  of  a  man. 
There's  too  much  for  me  to  do  to  waste  my  time  and 
thoughts  hanging  round  a  girl  who's  only  fooling  with 
me." 

"I  was  not  fooling,"  she  said  humbly;  "I  meant  it 
all." 

"Evidently  we  didn't  both  mean  the  same  thing." 

"No,  but  now  that  we  understand,  don't  go  off  this 
way  saying  it's  to  be  good-by  for  keeps.  I  shall  be 
so  lonely  without  you.  I  trust  in  you  so.  I  lean 
on  you — " 

"Lean  on  the  Colonel,"  he  interrupted,  almost 
brutally.  "He's  a  more  reliable  staff  than  I  am." 

"But  we  can  still  be  friends,"  she  urged,  not  ap- 
pearing to  notice  his  harshness. 

"No,  we'll  not  be  friends." 

Looking  down  at  her  he  forgot  his  sternness  and 
his  voice  grew  suddenly  roughened  with  feelings  he 
could  not  disguise. 

"I  can't  be  your  friend,  June  Allen.  There  may 
be  men  who  can  be  the  friend  of  the  women  they  feel 
to  as  I  do  to  you,  but  I'm  not  that  kind.  I  can  be 
your  husband,  only  that.  There's  to  be  no  play  at 
friendship  where  I'm  concerned,  no  taking  your  hand 
to  shake  when  I  want  to  take  you  in  my  arms  and 
keep  you  there,  where  no  other  man  in  the  world  can 
lay  his  finger  on  you  or  think  of  you  as  something 
he  can  try  to  win.  You  must  belong  to  me,  want  to 


328  THE  PIONEER 

belong  to  me,  come  to  me  of  your  own  free  will, 
or  else  we  must  be  strangers." 

He  took  her  hand,  lifted  it  from  his  arm  and  with 
a  short  "Good-by"  turned  and  left  the  room. 

June  stood  under  the  chandelier  listening  to  his 
retreating  footsteps  as  they  passed  along  the 
hall  and  then  down  the  outside  stairs.  She  remained 
motionless,  looking  down,  her  ear  strained  to  catch 
the  diminishing  footfalls  as  they  reached  the  end  of 
the  steps  and  were  deadened  in  the  dust  of  the  street. 
He  was  leaving  her  never  to  come  back,  disappearing 
from  her  life  and  the  place  he  had  of  late  taken  in  it, 
into  the  night  and  the  distance.  As  she  listened  her 
heart  momently  grew  heavier,  the  sense  of  empty 
desertion  about  her  became  suddenly  overwhelming. 

"Everybody  I  care  for  is  going  away  from  me," 
she  whispered  to  herself.  "Soon  there  won't  be  any- 
body left." 


CHAPTER  V 
"HER  FEET  GO  DOWN  TO  DEATH" 

Jerry  was  in  a  bad  temper.  For  some  days  he  had 
been  disturbed  by  rumors  of  Rion  Gracey's  atten- 
tions to  June.  In  the  long  twilights  of  the  summer 
evenings  Rion  had  been  constantly  seen  mounting  the 
steps  of  the  Murchison  mansion.  The  single  state  of 
the  Gracey  boys  had  long  been  a  matter  of  comment, 
and,  as  their  riches  grew  it  was  regarded  with  in- 
creasing wonderment.  Black  Dan's  heart  may  have 
been  buried  in  the  grave  of  his  child  wife,  but  Rion 
had  never  paid  any  attention  to  any  woman.  There- 
fore, when  it  was  known  of  men  that  he  was  a  fre- 
quent visitor  at  the  Aliens',  the  little  world  in  which 
he  was  a  marked  man  began  to  whisper. 

Jerry  did  not  at  first  hear  these  rumors.  He  was 
not  only  kept  busy  from  morning  till  night  but  he  was 
entirely  preoccupied  in  his  own  affairs.  His  femi- 
nine love  of  intrigue  for  its  own  sake  was  overpow- 
ered by  such  respect  and  honest  tenderness  as  he  still 
possessed  for  June.  After  his  interview  with  her 
he  determined  not  to  see  her  again.  June  was  not 
like  Lupe  Newbury  and  his  feeling  for  her  was  differ- 
ent. He  said  to  himself  with  a  sense  of  magnanimity 
that  no  unhappiness  should  ever  come  to  her  from 
329 


330  THE  PIONEER 

him,  and  in  order  to  be  on  the  safe  side  he  would 
keep  away  from  her. 

As  had  been  the  case  with  Jerry  all  his  life,  there 
was  method  in  his  morality.  He  had  gained  at  least 
one  thing  by  his  marriage  and  that  was  his  con- 
nection with  the  all-powerful  Graceys.  Though  he 
disliked  both  men,  who,  he  knew,  regarded  him  with 
secret  contempt,  their  patronage  was  too  valuable 
to  be  jeopardized.  June's  happiness  and  honor  were 
precious  things,  but  no  more  so  than  his  own  con- 
nection with  the  owners  of  the  Cresta  Plata.  So  he 
stayed  away  from  her,  feeling  himself  a  paladin  of 
virtue,  and  sentimentally  thinking  of  her  alone  in  the 
Murchison  mansion,  dreaming  of  him. 

This  agreeable  arrangement  of  the  situation  was 
suddenly  disrupted  by  the  stories  of  Rion's  atten- 
tions. Jerry's  high  thoughts  of  renunciation  were 
swept  away  in  a  flood  of  jealous  indignation.  At 
first  he  refused  to  believe  it.  He  was  absolutely  con- 
fident of  June's  constant  and  long-suffering  affec- 
tion for  him.  That  she  should  marry  some  one  else 
he  had  deemed  impossible.  But  one  of  the  Gracey 
boys — it  did  not  much  matter  which — the  owners 
of  one  of  the  richest  mines  on  the  Comstock,  was  a 
very  different  matter.  Money  loomed  the  largest  thing 
on  Jerry's  horizon.  He  did  not  believe  it  could  take 
a  less  prominent  place  on  that  of  other  people — of 
June  especially,  whose  father  he  knew  to  be  finan- 
cially embarrassed.  The  thought  of  her — his  own 
especial  property — triumphantly  marrying  a  million- 
aire, leaving  him,  as  it  were,  stranded,  having  lost 
everything  and  been  "done"  on  every  side,  infuriated 


"HER  FEET  GO  DOWN  TO  DEATH"    331 

him.  The  jealousy  that  had  possession  of  him  was 
fierce,  the  jealousy  of  the  man  whose  love  is  of  the 
destructive,  demolishing  kind. 

On  the  day  he  had  risen  up  in  a  bad  temper  he  had 
heard  what  amounted  to  confirmation  of  the  rumor. 
One  of  the  office  clerks  in  the  Cresta  Plata  had  told 
him  that  Rion's  infatuation  for  the  young  woman 
was  leading  him  into  lovers'  extravagances.  A  man 
who  had  always  been  indifferent  to  his  dress,  he  was 
now  getting  all  his  clothes  from  San  Francisco.  He 
had  books,  flowers,  and  candies  sent  up  for  her  all 
the  time.  He  was  with  her  constantly. 

"Rion  Gracey's  never  looked  at  a  woman  before," 
was  the  young  man's  final  comment,  "and  that's  the 
kind  that  it  takes  most  hold  on.  He's  got  it  bad  and 
can't  hide  it.  It's  out  on  him  for  any  one  to  see,  like 
the  measles." 

Jerry's  jealousy  and  alarm  boiled  past  the  point 
of  prudence.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  get  off  early 
that  afternoon  and  go  to  see  June,  and,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it  in  his  own  thoughts,  "have  it  out  with  her." 
He  had  no  idea  what  he  intended  to  say,  but  he  was 
going  to  find  out  what  her  attitude  was  to  Rion,  and, 
if  need  be,  accuse  her  of  her  perfidy. 

He  had  perfected  his  plan  of  escape  from  the  office 
when  Black  Dan  informed  him  that  he  was  consid- 
ering the  purchase  of  a  new  horse  and  wotild  be 
obliged  if  Jerry — a  notable  judge  of  horseflesh — would 
take  it  for  a  spin  along  the  grade  road  and  report  his 
opinion  of  it.  Black  Dan's  requests  in  this  way  were 
exceedingly  like  commands.  But  no  one,  from  Barney 
Sullivan,  the  smartest  superintendent  in  Virginia,  to 


332  THE  PIONEER 

the  youngest  miner  working  on  the  ore-breasts,  had 
ever  dared  to  question  them.  With  his  face  red  with 
rage  Jerry  bowed  his  head  in  acquiescence,  and  that 
afternoon  at  the  hour  when  he  had  hoped  to  be  con- 
fronting June  in  her  own  parlor  he  was  flying  along 
the  road  toward  Carson,  cursing  to  himself  as  he 
held  the  reins  over  the  back  of  Black  Dan's  new 
horse. 

The  afternoon  was  magnificent,  held  in  a  diamond - 
like  transparence  and  blazing  with  sun.  The  moun- 
tain air  tempered  its  heat.  As  Jerry  flew  along  that 
remarkable  road  which  curves,  like  an  aerial  terrace, 
round  the  out-flung  buttresses  of  Mount  Davidson, 
the  Sierra,  a  lingering  enameling  of  snow  on  its  sum- 
mits, spread  before  him.  Rising  high  in  tumbled 
majesty,  mosaics  of  snow  set  in  between  ravines  of 
swimming  shadow,  it  looked  unsubstantially  enormous 
and  unreal  like  scenery  in  dreams.  Between  it  and 
Mount  Davidson  vast,  airy  gulfs  of  space  fell  away 
that  seemed  filled,  as  a  glass  might  be  with  water, 
with  a  crystal  stillness.  The  whole  panorama,  clari- 
fied by  thin  air,  and  with  clear  washes  of  shade  laid 
upon  it,  was  like  a  picture  in  its  still,  impersonal  se- 
renity. 

Jerry,  in  his  rage,  let  the  horse  have  its  head  and 
they  sped  forward,  past  the  outlying  cabins  that  made 
a  scattering  along  the  approach  to  the  town,  past  the 
timbered  openings  of  the  lone  prospector's  tunnels, 
to  where  the  ledge  of  road  rimmed  the  barren  moun- 
tain flank.  They  were  flying  forward  at  an  exhilara- 
ting pace  when  he  noticed  a  woman's  figure  some  dis- 


"HER  FEET  GO  DOWN  TO  DEATH"    333 

tance  in  front  walking  on  the  narrow  edge  of  path 
and  moving  forward  at  a  brisk  rate  of  speed.  As  he 
overhauled  it  his  glance  began  to  fasten  on  it  with 
growing  eagerness.  The  woman  heard  the  thud  of 
the  flying  hoofs  behind  her,  and  drew  aside,  as  close 
to  the  outer  edge  as  she  dared,  looking  with  eyes 
that  blinked  in  the  sunlight  at  the  approaching  buggy. 
Jerry's  face  flushed  with  a  sudden  realizing  of  the 
completely  unexpected.  It  was  June. 

She  did  not  recognize  him  at  first,  and  drew  back, 
as  the  horse,  in  a  swirl  of  dust  and  spume  flakes,  came 
to  a  stop  beside  her.  Then  she  saw  who  it  was  and 
with  a  low-toned  "Jerry!"  stood  staring  at  him. 

"  Yes,  it's  I,"  he  said  hurriedly,  leaning  forward. 
"Get  in  and  I'll  take  you  for  a  spin." 

She  drew  away,  shaking  her  head.  The  spirited 
horse,  excited  by  its  run,  began  to  bite  at  the  bit, 
arch  its  neck  and  back  prancingly.  Jerry  had  to  with- 
draw his  attention  from  the  girl,  and,  swearing  in  a 
soft  undertone,  bestow  it  on  the  animal. 

"Come,  June,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  coaxingly, 
"there's  no  harm  in  driving  for  half  an  hour  with  me. 
This  is  a  new  horse  I'm  trying  for  Black  Dan  and 
it's  a  perfect  stunner." 

She  murmured  a  refusal,  backing  away  from  the 
wheels.  The  horse  paused  for  a  moment  in  its  curvet- 
ings  and  Jerry  had  an  opportunity  to  look  at  her 
and  say  in  his  most  compelling  tone: 

"I  only  want  you  to  drive  up  a  mile  or  two  with 
me.  It's  a  glorious  afternoon,  and  it's  worth  some- 
thing to  ride  behind  a  horse  like  this.  I'm  not  going 


334  THE  PIONEER 

to  say  anything  to  you  you  won't  like  to  hear.  You 
needn't  be  afraid.  You  and  I  are  too  old  friends  not 
to  trust  each  other." 

She  wavered. 

"Come,  get  in,"  he  said,  his  voice  soft  and  making 
an  urgent  upward  movement  with  his  chin,  that  seemed 
to  draw  her  into  the  buggy  as  his  hand  might.  She 
put  her  foot  on  the  step  and  the  next  moment  was 
beside  him.  The  horse  leaped  forward  and  the  road 
began  to  flash  by  like  a  yellow  ribbon. 

For  some  moments  they  were  silent,  Jerry  with 
his  eyes  on  the  road  ahead.  They  whirled  round  one 
of  the  projecting  spurs  of  the  mountain  and,  seeing 
the  long  curve  before  them  clear  of  vehicles,  he  turned 
and  looked  at  her.  His  eyes  as  they  met  hers  were 
hard  and  angry. 

"I've  been  hearing  things  about  you!"  he  said. 

"Things!     What  things?" 

"I  fancy  you  know." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  answered  un- 
easily. "What  sort  of  things?" 

"The  last  sort  of  things  in  the  world  I  want  to 
hear." 

She  looked  away  making  no  answer  and  he  said : 

"I've  heard  that  Rion  Gracey  is  in  love  with  you." 

"Oh,  is  that  it?"  she  commented  in  a  low  voice. 

Her  manner  irritated  him.  She  did  not  seem  to 
realize  the  seriousness  of  the  charge. 

"Yes — that's  it,"  he  replied,  continuing  to  regard 
her  with  a  look  of  pugnacious  ill-humor. 

She  again  made  no  reply  and  he  persisted  angrily: 
v"Is  he?" 


"HER  FEET  GO  DOWN  TO  DEATH"    335 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it.  It's  not  fair.  You've 
no  right  to  ask." 

"No  right  to  ask !"  he  exclaimed  in  enraged  amaze- 
ment. "No  right  to  ask!  My  God,  that's  a  remark 
for  you  to  make  to  me!" 

He  turned  his  face  to  the  horse,  his  mouth  set, 
his  lips  compressing  words  that  he  dared  not  utter. 
It  was  evidently  all  true.  The  thought  that  she  might 
be  already  engaged  to  Rion  entered  his  mind,  carry- 
ing with  it  a  sensation  of  appalling  blankness.  With 
a  flash  of  revealing  truth  he  saw  that  his  life,  with 
June  completely  gone  from  it,  would  be  for  ever  savor- 
less and  without  meaning.  He  had  not  realized  before 
how  much  he  cared  for  her. 

For  a  space  there  was  silence.  They  sped  round 
another  buttress  and  saw  an  unobstructed  semicircle 
of  road  before  them.  Without  looking  at  her  he  said 
abruptly : 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  him?" 

"No,"  she  answered. 

"No?"  he  almost  shouted,  this  time  turning  to  stare 
at  her. 

She  turned  her  face  away  repeating  the  negative. 

"Why  not?" 

"I — I — don't — oh,  Jerry,  don't  question  me  this 
way.  It's  not  fair." 

"But  he  has  asked  you?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you've  refused  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"I  haven't  got  that  sort  of  feeling  for  him.    I  ad- 


336  THE  PIONEER 

mire  him.  I  respect  him  above  all  men.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  much  he  was  to  me,  how  I  leaned  on  him, 
depended  on  him,  but — " 

She  stopped,  looking  down.  Jerry,  holding  the  reins 
in  his  loosely  gloved  hand,  leaning  toward  her,  and 
into  her  ear  whispered: 

"But  you  don't  love  him." 

He  turned  back  to  the  horse  with  his  face  alight 
with  triumph.  The  relief  that  she  was  still  his,  that 
love  of  him  had  made  her  refuse  such  an  offer,  intox- 
icated him.  He  could  have  sung  and  shouted.  He  was 
silent,  however,  his  eyes  on  the  horse,  conscious  in 
every  fiber  of  the  proximity  of  the  woman  who,  he 
now  knew,  had  not  the  power  to  break  from  his  in- 
fluence. 

Neither  spoke  again,  till  the  buggy,  cresting 
the  last  rise,  came  out  on  the  shoulder  of  the  moun- 
tain, whence  the  road  loops  downward  through  the 
sage  to  Washoe  Lake.  Below  them,  at  the  base  of 
the  Sierra,  the  lake  lay,  a  sheet  of  pure  blue,  its  banks 
shading  from  the  gray  of  the  surroundings  to  a  vivid 
green  where  the  water  moistened  them.  There  was 
something  human  in  this  evidence  of  the  land's  read- 
iness to  bloom  and  beautify  itself  when  the  means 
were  given  it.  It  was  a  touch  of  coquetry  in  this 
austere,  unsmiling  landscape  that  seemed  so  indif- 
ferent. 

Silent,  the  man  and  woman  looked  down,  neither 
thinking  of  what  they  saw.  The  spirited  horse  was 
now  willing  to  rest  for  a  space,  and  stood,  an  equine 
statue  against  the  sky,  eagerly  sniffing  the  keen  air, 
his  head  motionless  in  a  trance  of  alert  attention, 


"HER  FEET  GO  DOWN  TO  DEATH"    337 

his  ears  pricking  back  and  forth.  A  gulf  of  silence 
encircled  them,  pin-points  of  life  in  an  elemental 
world. 

June  sat  with  relaxed  muscles,  her  hands  in  her 
lap,  her  eyes  on  the  lake.  The  stormy,  troubled  joy, 
so  far  from  happiness,  that  was  hers  when  with 
Jerry,  held  her.  She  had  no  desire  to  speak  or  move. 
The  consciousness  of  his  presence  was  like  a  drug 
to  her  energies,  her  reason,  and  her  conscience.  Sitting 
beside  him,  in  this  sun-steeped,  serene  solitude,  the 
sense  of  wrong  in  his  companionship  became  less 
and  less  acute,  the  wall  of  reserve  between  them 
seemed  to  evaporate.  Sin  and  virtue,  honor  and  dis- 
honor, seemed  the  feeble  inventions  of  timid  man, 
oppressed  and  overwhelmed  by  this  primordial  nature 
which  only  sympathized  with  a  pagan  return  to  itself. 

From  an  absent  contemplation  of  the  landscape 
Jerry  turned  and  looked  at  his  companion.  He  sur- 
veyed her  with  tender  scrutiny,  noting  points  in  her 
appearance  he  had  loved — the  slight  point  with  which 
her  upper  lip,  just  in  the  middle,  drooped  on  her  under 
one,  the  depression  of  her  dimple,  the  fineness  of  her 
skin. 

"No  one  else  in  the  world  has  got  the  same  sort  of 
face  as  you,"  he  said  at  length. 

"That's  not  to  be  regretted,"  she  murmured  fool- 
ishly. 

"You've  the  dearest  little  mouth,  the  way  your  up- 
per lip  comes  down  in  a  point  on  your  lower  one!  I 
don't  believe  there's  another  woman  in  the  world  with 
such  a  queer  little  fascinating  mouth." 

He  continued  to  gaze  at  her,  half-smiling,  but  with 


338  THE  PIONEER 

intent  eyes.  Both  felt  the  desire  to  talk  leaving  them. 
The  silence  of  the  landscape  seemed  to  take  possession 
of  them,  to  make  speech  seem  trivial  and  unnecessary. 

"Why  did  you  refuse  Rion  Gracey?"  he  said  sud- 
denly in  a  lowered  voice. 

She  did  not  reply  and  he  repeated  the  question. 

"I  didn't  care  for  him,"  she  said  so  low  he  could 
hardly  hear  the  words. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  hers,  gathering  up  her  small 
fingers  in  his  large  grasp. 

"Why?"  he  repeated,  pressing  them. 

She  turned  away  in  evident  distress  and  he  whis- 
pered : 

"Was  it  because  you  loved  me?" 

Her  head  drooped  and  he  put  his  lips  almost  against 
her  cheek  as  he  whispered  again: 

"It  was.     I  know  it." 

They  were  silent  once  more,  neither  looking  at  the 
other  now.  Both  trembled,  guilt  and  fear  strong  in 
their  hearts. 

At  this  moment  a  rabbit  sprang  from  a  sage  bush 
across  the  path,  and  the  horse,  curling  backward  in 
a  spasm  of  fear,  rose  to  its  hind  legs  and  then  leaped 
forward  along  the  road.  It  took  Jerry  a  full  five 
minutes  to  control  him  and  turn  his  head  toward 
home. 

"I'll  take  you  back  now,"  he  said,  throwing  the 
words  sidewise  at  her  as  they  flew  onward.  "I'll  stop 
at  the  mouth  of  Crazy  Saunders'  Tunnel.  You  can  walk 
in  from  there.  If  I  drove  you  into  town  some  idiot 
would  see  us  and  make  talk.  I  never  saw  anything 
like  this  place.  If  Saint  Cecilia  and  Jephthah's  daugh- 


"HER  FEET  GO  DOWN  TO  DEATH"    339 

ter  settled  here  for  a  week  they'd  cook  up  some  gossip 
about  them." 

There  was  no  more  speech  between  them  till  they 
saw  the  timbered  opening  of  Crazy  Saunders'  Tun- 
nel loom  in  sight.  Beyond,  the  first  cottages  of  the 
town  edged  the  road. 

At  the  tunnel's  mouth  Jerry  drew  up.  June  put 
her  foot  forward  for  the  step,  and  as  she  did  so 
he  leaned  toward  her  and  said: 

"I'm  coming  to  see  you  soon." 

She  looked  quickly  at  him,  protest  and  alarm  in  her 
face. 

"No,  don't  do  that,"  she  said  almost  sharply.  "I 
don't  want  you  to.  You  mustn't." 

"Why  not?"  he  answered  in  a  tone  of  cool  defiance. 
"Why  shouldn't  I  ?  We're  old  friends.  I  see  no  reason 
why  I  shouldn't  come  up  to  see  you  now  and  then." 

The  fretting  horse,  capering  and  prancing  with 
impatience,  cut  off  further  conversation.  June  scram- 
bled out,  reiterating: 

"No,  don't  come.    I  don't  want  you  to." 

As  the  horse  sprang  forward  Jerry  called  over 
his  shoulder: 

"Hasta  manana,  Senorita.  I'm  not  going  to  say 
good-by." 

June  walked  home  with  her  eyes  down-drooped, 
her  head  hanging.  She  took  no  heed  of  the  brilliant 
colors  that  were  lending  beauty  to  the  crumpled  sky- 
line of  the  mountains.  She  did  not  see  the  people 
who  passed  her,  some  of  whom  knew  her  and  won- 
dered at  her  absorption.  Her  thoughts  went  back  to 
the  days  at  Foleys  when  she  and  Rosamund  had 


340  THE  PIONEER 

made  money  with  the  garden  and  had  been  so  full 
of  work  and  healthy,  innocent  happiness.  Then  she 
thought  of  the  life  in  San  Francisco,  with  its  growth 
of  lower  ambitions,  its  passion  and  its  suffering.  And 
now  this — so  dark,  so  menacing,  so  full  of  sudden, 
unfamiliar  dread ! 

A  phrase  she  had  heard  in  church  the  Sunday  be- 
fore rose  to  her  recollection:  "Her  feet  go  down  to 
death."  As  her  thoughts  roamed  somberly  back  over 
the  three  epochs  of  her  life  the  phrase  kept  recurring 
to  her,  welling  continually  to  the  surface  of  her  mind, 
with  sinister  persistence — 

"Her  feet  go  down  to  death." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    EDGE   OF    THE    PRECIPICE 

Since  his  connection  with  the  Graceys  Jerry  had 
been  buying  stock  in  the  numerous  undeveloped  and 
unpaying  mines  which  had  cropped  up  like  mush- 
rooms round  the  edges  of  the  town.  In  the  end  of 
July  a  new  strike  in  the  two-thousand- foot  level  of  the 
Cresta  Plata  sent  the  stock  of  the  mines  in  the  vicin- 
ity suddenly  up.  As  the  vein  was  opened  it  devel- 
oped into  a  discovery  of  great  importance.  The  shares 
Jerry  held  doubled  in  value  and  continued  to  advance. 
August  was  not  half  over  when  he  realized  that,  on 
paper  at  least,  he  was  again  a  rich  man. 

The  realization  brought  with  it  a  pulsing  sense  of 
exhilaration.  It  meant  not  only  the  joys  of  independ- 
ent wealth,  which  were  to  him  among  the  dearest 
on  earth,  but  the  liberty  to  do  with  his  life  what  he 
pleased.  It  was  not  only  freedom  from  the  Graceys, 
with  whom  his  work  had  become  a  detested  servi- 
tude, but  an  escape  from  the  bonds  his  marriage  had 
cast  round  him.  Escape  from  it  all — the  scorn  of  his 
employers,  the  drudgery  of  his  position,  the  meaning- 
less tie  that  held  him  to  an  unloved  wife  and  denied 
him  the  woman  he  craved. 

The  fever  of  the  time  and  his  own  mounting  for- 
341 


342  THE  PIONEER 

tunes  was  in  his  blood.  Actions  that  under  normal 
conditions  would  -have  seemed  to  him  base  he  now 
contemplated  with  a  sense  of  headstrong  defiance. 
He  was  on  fire  with  the  lust  of  money  and  the  desire 
of  woman.  The  two  passions  carried  him  off  his 
feet,t swept  away  his  judgment  and  reason.  But  the 
instinctive  deceptiveness  of  the  lover  of  intrigue  did 
not  desert  him.  While  he  was  inwardly  contemplat- 
ing desperate  steps,  on  the  surface  he  appeared  to 
be  merely  full  of  boyish  animation  and  high  spirits. 

To  June  alone  he  was  different,  a  man  of  almost 
terrifying  moods,  before  whom  at  one  moment  she 
shrank  and  the  next  melted.  He  had  brushed  aside 
her  request  not  to  see  her,  as  he  would  later  on  brush 
aside  all  her  requests,  her  reticences  and  modesties, 
and  be  the  master  of  a  broken  and  abject  slave. 

Despite  his  desire  to  be  with  her  he  saw  her  sel- 
dom. The  mining  town  offered  few  opportunities 
for  meetings,  which,  however  innocent  they  might 
be,  were  more  agreeable  if  they  took  place  in  the  se- 
clusion of  parks  and  quiet  byways  than  on  the  crowd- 
ed sidewalks  of  the  populous  streets.  There  were 
no  wooded  lanes  for  man  and  maid  to  loiter  in,  no 
plazas  with  benches  in  sheltered  corners.  In  its  hand- 
to-hand  fight  against  elemental  forces  the  town  had 
no  time  to  make  concessions  to  the  delicately  de- 
batable diversions  of  social  life.  It  only  recognized 
a  love  that  was  honestly  licit  or  frankly  illicit. 

A  few  hurried  visits  at  the  Murchison  mansion  in 
the  late  afternoon  when  the  Colonel  was  known  to 
be  busy  at  the  office  and  Allen  was  still  down  town, 
were  the  only  times  that  Jerry  had  been  able  to  have 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE        343 

speech  with  her.  These  interviews  had  at  first  been 
presided  over  by  an  outward  seeming  of  that  coolly 
polite  friendship  of  which  Jerry  liked  to  talk.  The 
conversation  avoided  all  questions  of  sentiment  as 
the  man  and  woman  seemed  to  avoid  the  proximity 
one  of  the  other,  sitting  drawn  apart  with  averted  eyes, 
talking  of  impersonal  matters. 

But  as  his  holdings  advanced  in  value,  as  he  saw 
himself  day  by  day  loosening  the  bonds  that  bound 
him  to  his  employers,  his  wife,  a  society  of  which  he 
was  weary,  his  restraint  was  relaxed.  His  words  grew 
less  fluent,  his  pose  of  friend  changed  to  that  of  the 
man  on  whose  conversation  moments  of  silence  fall 
while  he  looks  with  ardent  eyes  on  a  down-drooped 
face.  June  made  a  last  desperate  stand,  tried  with  de- 
spairing struggles  to  draw  back  from  the  fate  closing 
around  her.  Even  now  she  did  not  realize  how  close 
she  was  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  But  Jerry  did. 
He  knew  they  were  standing  on  its  brink. 

One  evening,  early  in  September,  June  and  the  Col- 
onel were  sitting  together  at  dinner  in  the  dining-room 
of  the  Murchison  mansion.  Allen  had  gone  to  San 
Francisco  for  a  week,  and  the  Colonel  was  to  dine 
with  June  every  evening  till  his  return.  He  spent 
as  much  of  his  time  as  possible  with  the  young  girl 
in  these  lonely  days.  Even  Mitty  Sullivan  and  the 
baby  were  away,  having  gone  to  Lake  Tahoe  for 
two  months.  Thus  the  one  house  to  which  June 
could  constantly  go  and  be  cheered  by  the  society 
of  a  woman  friend  was  closed  to  her. 

Since  Rosamund's  wedding  the  Colonel  had  seen 
a  distinct  change  in  his  darling.  He  set  it  down  to 


344  THE  PIONEER 

grief  at  her  sister's  departure.  She  was  pale  and 
listless.  The  joy  of  youth  had  gone  completely  from 
her.  Of  late  he  had  noticed  that  she  was  often  absent- 
minded,  not  answering  him  if  he  spoke  to  her.  He 
worried  over  her  with  a  man's  helplessness  in  situa- 
tions of  complicated  feminine  tribulation.  Allen, 
drunk  half  of  the  time,  absent  the  other  half,  was  no 
guardian  for  her.  Yet  the  Colonel  could  not  take 
her  away  from  him.  He  was  her  father.  Sometimes 
when  he  let  himself  build  air  castles  over  his  after- 
dinner  cigar,  he  thought  that  perhaps  Allen  might 
die  or  marry  again  and  then  June  would  come  to 
him  and  be  his  daughter.  He  would  watch  over 
her  and  lap  her  round  with  love  and  tenderness,  and 
far  off,  in  a  rosy  future,  he  would  see  her  giving  her 
hand  to  Rion,  the  man,  he  told  himself,  that  Provi- 
dence had  made  for  her. 

Her  appearance  to-night  shocked  him.  She  was 
pallid,  the  delicate  blue  blur  of  veins  showing  on  her 
temples,  her  eyes  heavy  and  darkly  shadowed.  He 
noticed  that  she  ate  little,  crumbling  her  bread  with  a 
nervous  hand,  and  only  touching  her  lips  to  the  rim 
of  the  wine  glass.  She  was  unusually  distraught,  often 
not  answering  the  remarks  he  made  to  her,  but  sit- 
ting with  her  lids  down,  her  eyes  on  her  restlessly 
moving  fingers. 

Toward  the  end  of  dinner  a  sense  of  apprehension 
began  to  pervade  him.  If  she  continued  to  droop 
this  way  she  might  contract  some  ailment  and  die. 
Her  mother  had  died  of  consumption  and  consump- 
tion often  descended  from  parent  to  child.  He  knew 
now  that  her  likeness  to  Alice  went  deeper  than  mere 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE        345 

outward  form  into  the  secret  springs  of  thought  and 
action.  It  was  one  of  those  careful  and  perfect  re- 
productions of  type  to  which  Nature  is  now 
and  then  subject.  June  was  her  mother  in  looks,  in 
character,  in  temperament.  It  was  so  singularly  close 
a  resemblance  that  it  seemed  but  natural  to  dread 
for  her  the  disease  that  had  killed  the  elder  woman. 

"You  feel  perfectly  well,  Junie?"  he  inquired,  try- 
ing to  speak  easily  but  with  anxious  eyes  on  her. 

"Well  ?"  she  repeated.  "Oh,  quite  well !  I've  never 
been  better.  What  makes  you  ask?" 

"I  thought  you  looked  pale,  paler  than  usual,  and 
seemed  out  of  spirits.  Are  you  out  of  spirits,  dearie  ?" 

"I've  not  been  very  cheerful  since — since — Rosa- 
mund left." 

She  concluded  the  sentence  with  an  effort.  The 
half-truth  stuck  in  her  throat.  She  had  been  in  a 
state  of  confused  misery  for  days,  but  the  pain  of  her 
deception  pierced  through  it. 

"I  hate  to  leave  you  looking  like  this,"  he  contin- 
ued. "I'm  sure  you're  not  well." 

"Leave  me !"  she  exclaimed  with  a  startled  emphasis. 
"You're  not  going  to  leave  me?" 

Her  face,  full  of  alarmed  protest,  astonished  him. 

"Of  course  I'm  not  going  to  leave  you.  I'm  going 
down  to  San  Francisco  on  Monday  for  two  weeks, 
that's  all.  Business  of  Black  Dan's." 

She  sat  upright,  bracing  her  hands  against  the 
edge  of  the  table  and  said,  almost  with  violence: 

"Don't  go.  I  don't  want  you  to  go.  You  mustn't 
go." 

"But,  my  dear  little  girl,  it's  only  for  two  weeks, 


346  THE  PIONEER 

perhaps  less.  I  expect  to  be  back  Friday  evening. 
I  know  it's  lonely  for  you,  but  you  know  we  have  to 
put  up  with  a  good  deal  on  our  way  through  this 
world.  You've  found  that  out,  honey.  We've  got  to 
have  our  philosophy  pretty  handy  sometimes." 

"Oh,  philosophy!  I  haven't  got  any.  I  only  seem 
to  have  feelings." 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  the  Colonel  watching  her 
with  anxiously  knit  brows.  Her  distress  at  the  thought 
of  his  leaving  her  filled  him  with  uneasy  surprise.  It 
seemed  so  disproportioned  to  the  cause.  She  passed 
round  the  table  and  came  to  a  halt  beside  him. 

"Can't  you  put  it  off?"  she  said,  trying  to  speak 
in  her  old  coaxing  way.  "Put  it  off  till  I  go  to 
England  to  visit  Rosamund." 

"Oh,  June!"  he  exclaimed,  hardly  able  to  forbear 
laughing.  "What  a  thing  for  a  girl  who's  lived  among 
mining  men  almost  all  her  life  to  suggest!  You  won't 
go  for  over  two  months  yet,  and  this  is  important.  It's 
about  the  new  pumps  for  the  two-thousand-foot  level. 
I  leave  on  Monday." 

"Monday!"  she  repeated  with  the  same  air  of  star- 
tled alarm.  "Next  Monday?" 

"Yes.  If  all  goes  well  I  won't  be  gone  two  weeks. 
I'll  be  back  Friday  night.  I'll  bring  you  up  some 
new  books,  and  anything  else  you  can  think  of.  You 
know  this  is  business,  and  there's  no  fooling  with 
Black  Dan.  If  you  were  sick  in  bed  it  would  be  a 
different  matter.  But  as  it  is  I  must  go." 

Without  more  words  she  turned  away  and  went 
slowly  back  to  her  seat.  The  Colonel,  worried  and 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE        347 

baffled,  watched  her  apprehensively.  He  thought  to 
prick  her  pride  into  life  and  said  rallyingly: 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  you're  just  a  little  bit 
spoiled.  The  old  man's  making  a  baby  of  you.  You're 
just  as  much  of  a  child  as  ever." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  twinkling  eye,  hoping  to 
see  her  laugh.  But  she  was  grave,  leaning  languidly 
against  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"I'm  not  as  much  of  a  child  as  you  think,"  was  her 
answer. 

On  the  following  Monday,  en  route  to  the  depot, 
the  Colonel  paused  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd 
round  the  stock  bulletins  pasted  up  in  a  broker's  win- 
dow. He  did  not  see  that  Jerry  was  on  the  other  side 
of  the  crowd.  But  Jerry  saw  him,  and  through  the 
openings  between  the  swaying  heads,  eyed  him  warily. 

As  the  elder  man  turned  away  in  the  direction  of 
the  depot,  Jerry  backed  from  the  edges  of  the  crowd 
to  watch  the  retreating  figure.  His  handsome  face 
only  showed  a  still  curiosity,  but  there  was  malevo- 
lence in  his  eyes.  He  had  quietly  hated  the  Colonel 
since  the  night  of  the  Davenport  ball  and  awaited 
his  opportunity  to  return  that  blow. 

"Old  blackguard!"  he  thought  to  himself,  "I'll  be 
even  with  you  soon,  now !" 

The  month  of  September  advanced  with  early  dark- 
ening evenings  and  the  clear  sharpening  of  outlines 
which  marks  the  first  breath  of  autumn.  It  was  easier 
for  Jerry  now  to  see  June.  In  the  late  afternoons 
the  twilight  came  quickly  and  he  could  mount  the 
long  stairs  to  the  Murchison  mansion  without  fear 


348  THE  PIONEER 

of  detection.  The  Colonel  was  away.  Allen  had 
returned  but  was  much  out,  and  when  at  home  was 
closeted  in  a  small  room  of  his  own  that  he  called 
his  office.  The  way  was  clear  for  Jerry,  but  he 
still  advanced  with  slow  and  cautious  steps. 

The  Colonel  had  been  gone  over  a  week  when  one 
evening  June  entered  the  office  to  consult  with  her 
father  about  an  unpaid  household  bill  for  which  a 
tradesman  had  been  dunning  her.  The  shortness  of 
money  from  which  Allen  had  been  suffering  since 
Rosamund's  marriage,  was  beginning  to  react  upon 
June.  Several  times  of  late  the  holders  of  accounts 
against  her  father  had  paid  personal  visits  to  the 
Murchison  mansion.  She  had  not  yet  grasped  the 
hopeless  nature  of  their  situation.  Even  in  the  town 
Allen's  insolvency  was  not  known.  It  was  simply  ru- 
mored that  he  was  "hard-up." 

As  she  opened  the  door  in  answer  to  his  "Come 
in"  she  smelt  the  sharp  odor  of  burning  paper,  and 
saw  that  the  grate  was  full  of  charred  fragments. 
Portions  of  a  man's  wardrobe  were  scattered  about 
on  the  various  pieces  of  furniture,  and  on  a  sofa 
against  the  wall  two  half-packed  valises  stood  open. 
Allen  sat  at  his  desk,  amid  a  litter  of  papers,  some 
of  which  he  had  been  tearing  up,  others  burning. 
As  his  eye  fell  on  his  daughter  he  laid  his  hand 
over  an  open  letter  before  him. 

She  came  in,  holding  the  bill  out  toward  him,  and 
timidly  explaining  her  entrance  and  its  cause,  for 
of  late  he  had  been  fiercely  irascible.  To-night,  how- 
ever, he  greeted  her  with  unusual  gentleness,  and 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE        349 

taking  the  paper  from  her  hand  looked  at  it  and 
laid  it  aside. 

"Thompson,"  he  said;  "tell  him  his  account  will 
be  settled  in  a  few  days.  And  any  of  the  others  that 
send  in  bills  like  this,  tell  them  the  same  thing." 

"Are  you  going  again?"  she  asked,  looking  at  the 
valises. 

"Yes,  to-morrow.  You  can  just  casually  let  these 
fellows  know  that  I've  gone  down  to  San  Francisco 
to  sell  some  stock,  and  everything  will  be  satisfac- 
torily settled  up  when  I  get  back." 

"When  will  you  get  back?"  she  asked,  not  from  de- 
sire for  his  presence,  but  to  know  what  to  say  to  the 
uneasy  tradesmen. 

"You  tell  them  next  week,"  he  said,  "that'll  quiet 
them.  But  I  may  be  longer.  It  may  be  two  or  even 
three  weeks.  I've  lots  of  things  to  arrange,  so  don't 
you  worry  if  I  don't  show  up  next  week  or  even  later." 

He  tore  the  letter  he  had  been  covering  with  his 
hand  into  small  pieces  and,  rising,  threw  them  into 
the  grate  on  the  smoldering  remnants  of  the  others. 

"Uncle  Jim's  down  below  now,"  she  said,  "you'll 
probably  see  him." 

"But  he'll  be  back  in  a  few  days,  won't  he?"  he 
queried,  looking  at  her  with  sudden,  sharp  inquiry. 
"If — if — I  should  be  delayed,  as  I  told  you  I  might 
be,  he'll  be  here  and  he'll  look  after  you.  You  see  more 
of  him  now  than  you  do  of  me.  He  seems  to  be  more 
your  father  than  I." 

"He's  here  oftener,"  she  said  apologetically,  "you're 
away  so  much." 


350  THE  PIONEER 

"Maybe  that's  it.  I'm  not  kicking  about  it.  He's 
the  Graceys'  right  hand  man  now.  He's  on  top  of 
the  heap.  He'll  always  look  out  for  you,  and  he'll 
be  able  to  do  it." 

He  turned  to  throw  some  more  papers  on  the 
burning  pile,  missing  her  look  of  surprise. 

"Always  look  out  for  me!"  she  repeated.  "There's 
no  need  for  him  to  do  that.  You'll  be  back  soon." 

"You  needn't  take  me  so  literally.  But  you  ought 
to  know  by  this  time  that  the  future's  a  pretty  un- 
certain thing.  If  anything  should  happen  to  me,  it's 
just  as  I  say,  he'd  be  here  on  the  spot  ready  and  willing 
to  take  care  of  you.  You  can't  look  for  much  from 
me.  If  I  died  to-morrow  I  wouldn't  leave  you  a  cent. 
The  Barranca's  petered." 

"But  the  stocks  you're  going  to  San  Francisco  to 
sell?  They  must  be  worth  a  good  deal.  Everybody's 
stocks  seem  to  be  worth  something  now.  Mitty  Sul- 
livan's cook  says  she's  thirty  thousand  ahead." 

"Oh,  yes,  they'll  bring  something."  He  spoke  ab- 
sently, took  up  Thompson's  bill  and  thrust  it  on  a 
spike  with  others  of  its  kind.  "There  they  are,  all 
the  tradesmen.  Don't  let  them  bother  you.  You'd 
better  run  along  now  and  let  me  finish  up." 

"Can  I  help  you  pack?"  she  suggested  with  timid 
politeness. 

He  shook  his  head,  his  eye  traveling  down  a  new 
letter  he  had  picked  up  from  the  desk. 

"Good  night,"  she  said,  moving  toward  the  door. 

He  dropped  the  letter  and,  following  her,  put  his 
arm  around  her  and  kissed  her.  It  was  an  unexpected 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE        351 

caress.  He  and  his  daughter  had  grown  very  far 
apart  in  this  last  year. 

"Good-by,"  he  said  gently,  and  turning  from  her 
went  back  to  his  papers. 

"Run  along,"  he  said  without  looking  up.  "I'll  be 
busy  here  for  some  hours  yet." 

When  she  came  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing he  had  already  gone.  The  Chinaman  told  her  he 
had  left  early,  driving  into  Reno  by  private  convey- 
ance in  order  to  catch  the  first  morning  train  to  the 
coast. 

That  evening  Jerry  beat  out  the  last  spark  of  her 
resistance.  He  held  her  close  in  his  arms,  his  cheek 
against  hers,  and  revealed  to  her  his  plan  of  elopement. 
Trembling  and  sobbing  she  clung  to  him,  under  his 
kisses  the  words  of  denial  dying  on  her  lips.  He  paid 
no  heed  to  her  feeble  pleadings,  hushing  her  protests 
with  caresses,  whispering  of  their  happiness,  murmur- 
ing the  lovers'  sentences  that,  since  Eve,  have  been  the 
undoing  of  impassioned  women. 

When  he  stole  down  the  steps  in  the  darkness  of 
the  early  night,  triumph  was  in  his  heart.  She  was 
his  when  he  chose  to  take  her,  her  will  as  water,  her 
resistance  only  words.  A  new  world  of  love,  liberty 
and  riches  lay  before  him.  The  bleak  town  and  its 
bitter  memories  would  soon  be  far  behind,  and  June 
and  he  in  a  strange  country  and  a  new  life  would 
begin  their  dream  of  love. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   COLONEL   COMES   BACK 

Jerry's  plans  had  been  laid  with  the  utmost  secrecy 
and  care.  It  behooved  him  to  be  wary,  for  he  knew 
that  detection  would  mean  death.  Neither  the  Col- 
onel nor  Black  Dan  would  have  hesitated  to  shoot 
him  like  a  dog  if  they  had  known  what  he  contem- 
plated, and  working  day  by  day  in  an  office  with 
these  men,  in  a  town  the  smallness  and  isolation  of 
which  rendered  every  human  figure  a  segregated  and 
important  unit,  it  required  all  the  shrewdness  of  which 
he  was  master  to  mature  his  design  and  arouse  no 
suspicion. 

The  time  had  now  come  when  everything  was  sud- 
denly propitious.  Had  the  Prince  of  Darkness  been 
giving  Jerry's  affairs  his  particular  attention,  circum- 
stances could  not  have  fallen  together  more  conven- 
iently for  the  furthering  of  his  purpose. 

In  the  office  of  the  Cresta  Plata  it  was  arranged 
that  every  two  weeks  he  should  be  given  three  or 
four  days  off  to  go  to  San  Francisco  and  visit  his 
wife.  These  holidays,  which  were  grudgingly  doled 
out  by  Black  Dan,  always  included  the  Sunday,  as  the 
older  man  was  determined  his  son-in-law  should  have 
as  little  immunity  from  work  as  possible.  In  the  mid- 
352 


THE  COLONEL  COMES  BACK          353 

die  of  the  week  Jerry  was  informed  that  he  could 
leave  for  San  Francisco  on  the  following  Saturday 
morning  to  report  again  at  the  office  on  Wednesday. 

The  granting  of  this  five  days'  leave  of  absence 
made  the  elopement  easy  of  accomplishment,  robbing 
it  of  the  danger  of  detection  that  Jerry  realized  and 
shrank  from.  He  and  June  could  leave  on  Fri- 
day night  and  take  the  overland  train  eastward.  They 
would  have  five  days'  start  before  discovery  was  made, 
and  in  five  days  they  would  be  so  far  on  their 
journey  that  it  would  be  easy  for  them  to  conceal 
themselves  in  some  of  the  larger  "towns  along  the 
route.  Mercedes,  who  was  a  bad  correspondent,  could 
be  trusted  not  to  write  to  her  father,  and  Allen,  ac- 
cording to  June's  artless  revelations,  was  gone  for  a 
much  longer  time  than  he  wanted  known.  Finally 
the  last  and  most  serious  obstacle  was  removed  in 
the  shape  of  the  Colonel.  Jerry  being  in  the  office 
knew  that  his  enemy  would  not  be  back  before  Tues- 
day or  Wednesday,  as  the  work  of  inspecting  the 
pumps  had  been  slower  than  was  anticipated. 

Months  of  waiting  and  planning  could  not  have  ar- 
ranged matters  more  satisfactorily.  Luck,  once  again, 
was  on  his  side,  as  it  had  been  so  often  in  the  past. 

Early  on  the  Friday  morning  he  went  to  the  livery 
stable  that  he  always  patronized,  and  where  he  knew 
the  finest  team  of  roadsters  in  Nevada  was  for  hire. 
Mining  men  of  that  day  were  particular  about  their 
horses.  There  were  animals  in  the  Virginia  stables 
whose  superiors  could  not  be  found  west  of  New 
York.  The  especial  pair  that  Jerry  wanted  were 
only  leased  to  certain  patrons  of  the  stable,  but  Jerry, 


354  THE  PIONEER 

an  expert  on  horseflesh,  besides  being  Black  Dan 
Gracey's  son-in-law,  had  no  difficulty  in  securing  them 
for  that  evening. 

He  had  had  some  idea  of  driving  into  Reno  him- 
self and  letting  June  come  in  on  the  train,  but  he  had 
a  fear  that,  left  alone,  she  might  weaken.  To  be  sure 
of  her  he  must  be  with  her.  Moreover,  there  was 
little  risk  in  driving  in  together.  They  would  not 
start  until  after  dark  and  their  place  of  rendezvous 
would  be  a  ruined  cabin  some  distance  beyond  the 
Utah  hoisting  works  on  the  Geiger  grade.  The  spot 
would  be  deserted  at  that  hour,  and  even  if  it  were 
not,  the  spectacle  of  a  buggy  and  pair  of  horses  was 
so  common  that  it  would  be  taken  for  that  of  some 
overworked  superintendent  driving  into  Reno  on  a 
sudden  business  call. 

From  the  stable  he  returned  to  the  office  and  alone 
there  wrote  a  hasty  letter  to  June.  He  had  told  her 
the  outline  of  his  plan,  and  that  Friday  would  be 
the  day,  but  he  had  given  her  no  details  of  what 
their  movements  would  be.  Now  he  wrote  telling  her 
minutely  of  the  time  and  place  of  departure  and  im- 
pressing upon  her  not  to  be  late.  He  would,  of  course, 
be  there  before  her,  waiting  in  the  buggy.  There  was 
a  party  of  Eastern  visitors  to  be  taken  over  the  mine 
in  the  afternoon,  and  it  would  be  easy  for  him  to  get 
away  from  them,  leaving  them  with  Marsden,  the 
foreman,  change  his  clothes,  and  be  at  the  place  indi- 
cated before  she  was.  He  was  still  fearful  that  she 
might  fail  him.  Now,  as  the  hour  approached,  he  was 
so  haunted  by  the  thought  that  he  asked  her  to  send 
at  least  a  few  words  of  answer  by  his  messenger. 


THE  COLONEL  COMES  BACK          355 

Half  an  hour  later  Black  Dan  entered  the  office  and 
paused  by  his  son-in-law's  desk  to  give  him  some  in- 
structions as  to  the  Eastern  visitors  and  the  parts  of 
the  mine  they  were  to  be  shown.  They  were  people 
of  importance  from  New  York,  the  men  being  heavy 
shareholders  in  the  Cresta  Plata  and  the  Con.  Virginia. 
The  ladies  of  the  party  were  to  be  relegated  to  the 
care  of  Jerry  and  Marsden  the  foreman,  and  not  to 
be  taken  below  the  thousand-foot  level.  Black  Dan 
and  Barney  Sullivan  would  take  the  men  farther 
down.  Jerry  was  to  be  ready  in  the  hoisting  works 
at  four  o'clock. 

As  Black  Dan  was  concluding  his  instructions  Jer- 
ry's messenger  reentered  the  office  and  handed  the 
young  man  a  small,  pale  gray  envelope.  It  was 
obviously  a  feminine  communication,  and  its  recipient, 
under  the  darkly  scrutinizing  eye  of  his  father-in-law, 
flushed  slightly,  but  he  gave  no  other  sign  of  con- 
sciousness, and  as  Black  Dan  passed  on  to  the  inner 
office,  he  sat  down  and  opened  the  letter. 

It  was  only  a  few  lines  in  June's  delicate  hand- 
writing : 

"I  will  be  there.  I  go  to  my  ruin,  Jerry,  for  you. 
Will  there  be  anything  in  our  life  together  that  will 
make  me  forget  that?  June." 

Jerry  read  it  over  several  times.  It  certainly  did 
not  breathe  an  exalted  gladness.  Away  from  him 
she  always  seemed  in  this  condition  of  fear  and  doubt. 
It  was  his  presence,  his  hand  upon  her,  that  made  her 
tremulously,  submissively  his.  He  would  not  be  sure 
of  her  till  she  was  beside  him  to-night  in  the  buggy. 

Would  that  hour  ever  come  ?    He  looked  at  the  clock 


356  THE  PIONEER 

ticking  on  the  wall.  With  every  passing  moment  his 
exaltation  seemed  to  grow  stronger.  It  was  difficult 
for  him  to  be  quiet,  not  to  stop  and  talk  to  everybody 
that  he  encountered  with  a  feverish  loquacity.  The 
slowly  gathering  pressure  of  the  last  month  seemed 
to  culminate  on  this  day  of  mad  rebellion.  With- 
in the  past  two  weeks  his  stocks  had  increased  largely 
in  value.  He  was  a  rich  man,  and  to-night  with  the 
woman  he  loved  beside  him  he  would  be  free. 
He  and  she,  free  in  the  great  outside  world,  free  to 
love  and  to  live  as  they  would.  Would  the  day  never 
pass  and  the  night  never  come? 

In  San  Francisco  the  Colonel  was  completing  the 
business  of  the  pumps  as  quickly  as  he  could.  He  felt 
that  he  was  getting  to  be  a  foolish  old  man,  but  he 
could  not  shake  off  his  worry  about  June.  Her  words 
and  appearance  at  their  last  interview  kept  recurring 
to  him.  Many  times  in  the  past  year  he  had  seen 
her  looking  pitifully  fragile  and  known  her  to  be 
unhappy,  but  he  had  never  before  felt  the  poignant 
anxiety  about  her  that  he  now  experienced. 

Despite  his  desire  to  get  back  with  as  much  speed 
as  possible,  unforeseen  delays  occurred,  and  instead  of 
returning  on  Friday,  as  he  had  hoped,  he  saw  that  he 
would  not  be  back  before  Wednesday.  He  wrote  this 
to  June  in  a  letter  full  of  the  anxious  solicitude 
he  felt.  To  this  he  received  no  answer,  and,  his  worry 
increasing,  he  was  about  to  telegraph  her  when  he 
received  a  piece  of  information  that  swept  all  minor 
matters  from  his  mind. 

On  Thursday  at  midday  he  was  lunching  with  a 
friend  at  the  club,  when,  in  the  course  of  conversation, 


THE  COLONEL  COMES  BACK          357 

his  companion  asked  him  if  he  knew  the  whereabouts 
of  Beauregard  Allen.  The  words  were  accompanied 
with  a  searchingly  significant  look.  The  Colonel,  an- 
swering that  Allen  was  in  Virginia,  paused  in  his 
meal  and  became  quietly  attentive.  He  knew  more 
than  others  of  Allen's  situation.  Of  late  he  had 
scented  catastrophe  ahead  of  his  one-time  comrade. 
The  man's  face  opposite  him  struck  an  arrow  of  sus- 
picion through  his  mind.  He  put  down  his  wine  glass 
and  sat  listening,  his  expression  one  of  frowning 
concentration. 

His  friend  was  a  merchant  with  a  large  shipping 
business  between  San  Francisco  and  Australia.  That 
morning  he  had  been  to  the  docks  to  see  a  ship  about 
to  sail,  which  carried  a  cargo  of  his  own.  The  ship 
took  few  passengers,  only  two  or  three,  he  thought. 
While  conversing  with  the  captain  he  had  seen  dis- 
tinctly in  the  doorway  of  an  open  cabin  Beauregard 
Allen  unpacking  a  valise.  In  answer  to  his  question 
the  captain  had  said  it  was  one  of  his  passengers 
taken  on  that  morning.  He  had  brought  no  trunks, 
only  two  valises,  and  given  his  name  as  John  Mont- 
gomery. 

"It  was  Beauregard  Allen,"  the  Colonel's  inform- 
ant continued.  "The  man's  no  friend  of  mine,  but 
I've  seen  him  round  here  for  years.  He  looked  up  and 
saw  me  and  drew  back  quick,  as  if  he  did  not  want 
to  be  recognized." 

"He'd  taken  passage  this  morning,  you  say?"  asked 
the  Colonel. 

"Yes,  to  Melbourne.  There  was  only  one  other 
passenger,  a  drunken  boy  being  sent  on  a  long  sea 


358  THE  PIONEER 

voyage  by  his  parents.  They'll  make  a  nice,  inter- 
esting pair." 

The  Colonel  looked  at  his  plate  silently.  He  was 
sending  his  thoughts  back  over  the  last  year,  trying 
to  collect  data  that  might  throw  some  light  on  what 
he  had  just  heard. 

"You're  certain  it  was  Allen,  not  a  chance  like- 
ness?" he  said  slowly. 

"I'll  take  my  oath  of  it.  Why,  I've  seen  the  man 
for  the  past  four  years  dangling  around  here.  I 
know  his  face  as  well  as  I  know  yours,  and  I  had  a 
good  look  at  it  before  he  saw  me  and  jumped  back. 
He's  got  in  too  deep  and  skipped.  Everybody  has 
been  wondering  how  he  kept  on  his  feet  so  long." 

"He's  in  pretty  deep,  sure  enough,"  said  the  Colo- 
nel absently.  "You  said  Melbourne  was  the  port? 
When  do  they  sail?" 

"Midday  to-day.  They're  off  by  now.  They'll  be 
outside  the  heads  already  with  this  breeze." 

The  Colonel  asked  a  few  more  questions  and  then 
rose  and  excused  himself.  His  business  was  pressing. 

His  first  action  was  to  send  a  telegram  to  Rion 
Gracey,  asking  him  if  Allen  had  left  Virginia  and 
where  June  was.  The  answer  was  to  be  sent  to  the 
club.  Then  he  went  forth.  His  intention  was  to 
inquire  at  the  hotels  patronized  by  Allen  on  his  fre- 
quent visits  to  the  city.  As  he  went  from  place  to 
place  the  conviction  that  the  man  seen  by  his  friend 
had  been  June's  father,  and  that  he  had  fled,  strength- 
ened with  every  moment. 

A  feverish  anxiety  about  June  took  possession  of 
him.  If  her  father  had  decamped  leaving  her 


THE  COLONEL  COMES  BACK          359 

alone,  she  would  have  to  face  his  angry  creditors. 
He  thought  of  her  as  he  had  last  seen  her,  exposed 
to  such  an  experience,  and  his  heart  swelled  with  pity 
and  rage.  Possibly  she  knew,  had  guessed  what 
was  coming  and  had  begged  him  to  stay  with  her  to 
protect  and  care  for  her  in  a  position  for  which 
she  was  so  little  fitted.  And  he  had  left  her — left 
her  to  face  it  alone! 

He  returned  to  the  club,  having  heard  no  word  of 
Allen,  and  found  Rion's  answer  to  his  telegram.  It 
ran: 

"Allen  left  for  coast  Wednesday  morning.  June 
here.  What's  amiss?" 

It  seemed  to  the  Colonel  complete  confirmation  of 
his  fears.  Allen  leaving  Wednesday  morning  would 
reach  San  Francisco  some  time  that  night.  Evi- 
dently his  plans  had  been  made  beforehand,  for  the 
ship  he  had  taken  was  one  of  the  fastest  merchant- 
men on  the  Pacific  and  was  scheduled  to  leave  at  mid- 
day Thursday. 

Nothing  was  suspected  at  Virginia  yet,  and  June 
was  there  alone.  At  any  moment  now,  the  informa- 
tion being  in  the  hands  of  more  than  one  person, 
Allen's  flight  might  be  made  public,  and  she,  his  only 
representative,  would  become  the  victim  of  the  rage  of 
the  petty  creditors  who  would  swarm  about  her.  He 
was  the  one  human  being  upon  whom  she  could  call. 
No  duty  or  business  would  hold  him  from  her.  A 
thrill  of  something  like  joy  passed  through  him  when 
he  realized  that  now,  at  last,  he  could  stand  between 
her  and  all  trouble — a  lion  with  its  cub  behind  it. 

He  took  the  evening  train  for  Virginia,  hoping  to 


360  THE  PIONEER 

reach  Reno  the  next  morning  and  catch  the  branch 
line  into  the  mining  town.  But  luck  was  against  him. 
A  snow-shed  was  down  near  the  summit.  Though  it 
was  only  the  latter  half  of  September,  a  premature 
blizzard  wrapped  the  mountain  heights  in  a  white 
mist.  For  eight  hours  the  train  lay  blocked  on  an 
exposed  ridge,  and  it  was  late  afternoon  when  it 
finally  set  the  Colonel  down  at  Reno. 

The  delays  had  only  accelerated  his  desire  to  be 
with  June.  During  the  long  hours  of  waiting  his 
imagination  had  been  active,  picturing  her  in  various 
distressing  positions,  besieged  by  importunate  cred- 
itors. He  hired  the  fastest  saddle  horse  in  the  Reno 
stables  and  rode  the  twenty-one  miles  into  Virginia 
in  an  hour.  It  was  dark  when  he  reached  there.  The 
swift  ride  through  the  sharp  autumnal  air  had  braced 
his  nerves.  He  was  as  anxious  as  ever  to  see  her, 
but  he  thought  that  before  he  did  so  he  would  stop 
for  a  few  moments  at  the  Cresta  Plata  and  see  Rion, 
explain  his  early  return,  and  learn  if  anything  was 
known  in  Virginia  of  Allen's  flight. 

The  office  was  already  lighted  up  and  behind  it  the 
great  bulk  of  hoisting  works  loomed  into  the  night, 
its  walls  cut  with  the  squares  of  illumined  windows, 
its  chimneys  rising  black  and  towering  against  the 
stars.  A  man  who  came  forward  to  take  his  horse 
told  him  that  the  gentlemen  were  all  in  the  mine  with 
a  party  of  visitors.  The  Colonel,  hearing  this,  turned 
his  steps  from  the  office  to  the  door  of  the  hoisting 
works  a  few  yards  beyond. 

The  building,  full  of  shadows  despite  the  lanterns 
and  gas  jets  ranged  along  its  walls,  looked  vacant 


THE  COLONEL  COMES  BACK          361 

and  enormous  in  its  lofty  spaciousness.  The  noise  of 
machinery  echoed  through  it,  the  vibration  shaking 
it  as  if  it  were  a  shell  built  about  the  intricacies  of 
wheels,  bands,  and  sheaves  that  whirred  and  slid  in 
complicated,  humming  swiftness  against  the  ceiling. 
The  light  struck  gleams  from  the  car  tracks  that 
radiated  from  the  black  hole  of  the  shaft  mouth 
where  it  opened  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  It  was 
divided  into  four  compartments,  and  from  these  a 
thin  column  of  steam  arose  and  floated  up  to  the  roof. 
Here  and  there  a  few  men  were  moving  about,  and 
aloft  behind  their  engines  were  the  four  engineers. 
They  were  mute  as  statues,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the 
dials  in  front  of  them  which  registered  the  move- 
ments of  the  cages  underground;  their,  ears  on  the 
alert  to  catch  the  notes  of  their  bells,  to  them  in- 
telligible as  the  words  of  a  spoken  language.  Near 
the  shaft  mouth  sitting  on  an  overturned  box  was 
Rion  Gracey. 

He  saw  the  Colonel  and  rose  to  his  feet  with  an 
exclamation  of  surprise  and  pleasure.  The  elder 
man,  drawing  him  aside,  told  him  the  reason  of  his 
return  and  asked  him  news  of  June.  Moving  toward 
the  door  they  conversed  together  in  lowered  voices. 
The  Colonel,  now  convinced  that  no  suspicion  of 
the  nature  of  Allen's  absence  had  yet  reached  Vir- 
ginia, felt  his  anxieties  diminished.  He  said  that 
he  might  attend  the  dinner  which  Black  Dan  was 
giving  that  evening  to  the  Easterners.  Rion  was  now 
waiting  for  them  to  come  up.  Barclay  and  the 
women  ought  to  be  up  at  any  moment;  they  had 
been  underground  nearly  two  hours,  an  unusual 


362  THE  PIONEER 

length  of  time,  for  even  on  the  thousand-foot  level 
the  heat  was  intense. 

His  anxieties  soothed,  the  Colonel  left  the  build- 
ing, his  heart  feeling  lighter  than  it  had  felt  for 
two  weeks. 

With  a  step  of  youthful  buoyancy  he  mounted 
the  steep  cross  streets  which  connected  by  a  series 
of  stairs  and  terraces  the  few  long  thoroughfares  of 
the  town.  He  was  out  of  breath  when  he  saw  the 
dark  shape  of  the  Murchison  mansion  standing  high 
on  its  crest  of  ground  against  a  deep  blue,  star- 
dotted  sky.  His  approach  was  from  the  side,  and 
that  no  lights  appeared  in  any  of  the  windows  in 
that  part  of  the  house  did  not  strike  him  as  unusual. 
But  when  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  long  stairway 
and  looking  up  saw  that  there  was  not  a  gleam  of 
light  to  be  seen  on  the  entire  fagade,  his  joy  suddenly 
died,  and  in  its  place  a  dread,  sharp  and  disturbing, 
seized  him. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  motionless,  staring  up. 
The  shrubs  that  grew  along  the  sloping  banks  of  the 
garden  rustled  dryly  in  the  autumn  night.  There 
was  something  sinister  in  the  high  form  of  the  house, 
mounted  aloft  on  its  terrace,  no  friendly  pane  gleam- 
ing with  welcoming  light,  no  sound  near  it  but  the 
low,  occasional  whispering  of  dying  vegetation. 
As  he  ran  up  the  steps,  his  footfall  sounded  singular- 
ly loud  and  seemed  to  be  buffeted  back  from  empty 
walls. 

His  first  and  second  pull  of  the  bell  brought  no 
response.  Between  them  he  listened  and  his  ear 
caught  nothing  but  the  stillness  of  desertion.  His 


THE  COLONEL  COMES  BACK          363 

third  furious  peal  was  answered  by  a  distant  footstep. 
He  heard  it  come  shuffling  along  the  hall,  pause,  and 
then  a  light  broke  out  through  the  glass  fanlight 
above  the  portal.  The  door  was  opened  a  crack,  and 
through  this  aperture  a  section  of  the  Chinaman's 
visage  was  revealed,  lit  by  a  warily  inspecting  eye. 

The  Colonel  pushed  the  door  violently  in,  sending 
the  servant  back  with  it  against  the  wall.  Kicking  it 
to  behind  him  he  demanded  between  his  panting 
breaths : 

"Where's  Miss  Allen?" 

"She's  gone,"  said  the  Chinaman,  exceedingly 
startled  by  this  violent  entry.  "All  gone." 

"All  gone!     All  gone  where?" 

"I  no  savvy.  Trie  boss  he  gone  two,  thlee  days. 
Gone  San  Francisco.  Miss  Allen  she  go  just  now." 

"She's  only  just  gone?  You  mean  she  has  just 
gone  down  town  to  buy  something  or  see  some  one?" 

"No.  She  go  'way.  She  say,  'Sing,  I  go  'way.' 
She  take  a  bag." 

"She's  gone  with  a  bag.  Where  the  devil  has  she 
gone  to  ?  Don't  be  such  a  damned  fool !  Where'd  she 
go?" 

"No  savvy.  She  no  tell  me.  She  take  bag  and  go 
just  now.  She  give  me  letter  for  you.  I  get  him. 
He  tell  you." 

"You've  got  a  letter  for  me?  Why  didn't  you  say 
that  before?  Go  get  it,  and  go  quick." 

The  Chinaman  shuffled  up  the  hall  and  turned  into 
the  dining-room.  The  Colonel,  having  caught  his 
breath,  leaned  against  the  wall  under  the  hall  gas. 
Jie  thought  probably  June  had  gone  to  Lake  Tahoe 


364  THE  PIONEER 

to  visit  Mitty  Sullivan.  Considering  the  situation  it 
was  the  best  thing  she  could  have  done.  As  the 
servant  reappeared  with  a  letter  in  his  hand  he  said: 

"When  did  she  leave  this?" 

"Now,"  answered  the  laconic  Oriental.  "She  give 
him  to  me  and  say,  'Give  him  Colonel  Pallish.  He 
come  back  Tuesday,  Wednesday  mebbe.  You  give 
him  letter  sure;  no  forget.'  You  come  back  before, 
I  give  him  now." 

The  Colonel  had  not  listened  to  the  last  phrases. 
He  moved  closer  to  the  gas  and  tore  open  the  letter. 
To  his  surprise  he  saw  that  it  was  several  pages  in 
length,  covered  closely  with  June's  fine  writing.  His 
eye  fell  on  the  first  sentence,  and  he  uttered  a  sudden 
suppressed  sound  and  his  body  stiffened.  The  words 
were: 

"Dear,  darling,  Uncle  Jim.  I  who  love  you  more 
than  anybody  in  the  world  am  going  to  hurt  you  so 
much.  Oh,  so  terribly !  Will  you  ever  forgive  me  ? 
Will  you  ever  again  think  of  June  without  sorrow 
and  pain?" 

He  stood  motionless  as  a  thing  of  stone,  while  his 
glance  devoured  the  page.  He  did  not  read  every 
word,  but  from  the  closely  written  lines  sentences 
seemed  to  start  out  and  strike  his  eyes.  He  turned 
the  sheet  and  saw  farther  down  a  paragraph  that 
told  him  everything: 

"The  future  is  all  dark  and  terrible,  but  I  am  going. 
I  am  going  with  Jerry.  I  am  going  wherever  he 
wants,  I  am  what  he  wants  to  make  me.  It's  only 
death  that  can  break  the  spell.  Good-by,  dearest, 
darlingest  XJncle  fai.  Oh,  good-by!  If  I  could 


THE  COLONEL  COMES  BACK         365 

only  see  you  again  for  one  minute!  Even  when  you 
read  this  and  realize  what  I  have  done  I  know  that 
you  will  love  me  and  make  excuses  for  me,  I  who 
will  be  no  longer  worthy  your  love  or  your  pity." 

The  Colonel's  hand  with  the  letter  crushed  in  it 
dropped  to  his  side.  For  a  moment  he  stood  rigid, 
his  face  gray  in  the  gas  light.  It  was  too  unex- 
pected a  blow  to  be  grasped  in  the  first  paralyzing 
second.  Then  he  turned  furiously  on  the  servant, 
shouting : 

"Where  did  she  go?    Where  did  she  go?" 

The  man  cowered  terrified  against  the  wall,  stam- 
mering in  broken  phrases, 

"I  no  savvy !  How  I  savvy  ?  She  go  with  a  bag. 
She  say,  'Give  him  the  letter'  and  I  give  him.  You 
read  him.  I  no  savvy  any  more." 

The  Colonel's  hand  on  his  chest  forcing  him  back 
against  the  door-post  cut  short  his  words : 

"When  did  she  go?  How  long  ago?  Answer  hon- 
estly, or,  by  God,  I'll  kill  you!" 

His  face  added  to  the  man's  terror,  but  it  also 
steadied  his  shaking  nerves: 

"She  go  not  one  hour ;  thlee-quarters.  She  come  to 
me  with  bag  and  say,  'Good-by,  Sing,  I  go  for  long 
time.'  She  give  me  the  letter  and  say  give  him  to 
you  Tuesday,  Wednesday.  Then  she  go." 

"Which  way?" 

"I  don't  see.  I  don't  look.  I  go  down  stairs.  I 
go  sleep  on  my  bed.  I  hear  bell  and  wake.  That's 
all." 

The  Colonel  released  him  and  turned  to  the  door. 
The  man  evidentlv  knew  no  more  than  he  said.  She 


366  THE  PIONEER 

had  been  gone  less  than  an  hour.  That  was  all  there 
was  to  tell. 

As  he  ran  down  the  long  stairs  he  had  no  definite 
idea  in  his  mind.  She  had  left  to  run  away  with 
Jerry  three-quarters  of  an  hour  earlier.  That  was 
all  he  thought  of  for  the  moment.  Then  the  frosty 
sharpness  of  the  night  air  began  to  act  with  tonic 
force  upon  him.  His  brain  cleared  and  he  remem- 
bered Rion's  words.  Half  an  hour  ago  Barclay  was 
still  in  the  mine.  There  had  evidently  been  some 
delay  in  his  coming  up.  No  trains  left  the  town  as 
late  as  that.  June  had  gone  somewhere  to  meet 
him,  to  some  place  of  rendezvous  whence  they  would 
probably  drive  into  Reno.  If  Barclay  had  not  yet 
left  the  mine  he  could  be  caught,  and  then 

With  wild  speed  he  ran  along  the  streets,  leaping 
down  the  short  flights  of  steps  that  broke  the  ascend- 
ing sidewalks.  He  thrust  people  aside  and  rushed 
on,  gray-faced  and  fiery-eyed.  For  the  second  time  in 
his  life  there  was  murder  in  his  heart. 

Through  the  darkness  of  his  mind  memories  of 
her  passed  like  slides  across  a  magic  lantern.  A 
sudden  picture  of  her  that  day  long  ago  at  the  spring, 
when  she  had  asked  him  to  let  her  mother  stay  in  his 
cottage,  rose  up  clear  and  detached  on  his  mental 
vision.  He  heard  again  the  broken  tones  of  her  voice 
and  saw  her  face  with  the  tears  on  it,  childish  and 
trustful,  as  it  had  been  before  the  influence  of  Jerry 
had  blighted  its  youth  and  marred  its  innocence. 

The  fury  that  possessed  him  rose  up  in  his  throat. 
He  could  not  have  spoken.  He  could  only  run  on, 
tearing  his  way  through  the  crowds  on  C  Street, 


THE  COLONEL  COMES  BACK          367 

across  it  to  a  smaller  thoroughfare  and  down  that  to 
where  the  dark  mass  of  the  Cresta  Plata  build- 
ings stood  out  against  the  night.  He  heard  the 
distant  hum  of  the  machinery,  and  then,  unexpected 
and  startling,  the  roar  of  men.  It  was  like  the  noise 
when  the  day  shift  came  up  and  every  ascending  cage 
was  packed  solid  with  miners. 

As  he  approached  the  door  the  men  began  to  come 
out,  streams  of  them,  some  running,  others  gather- 
ing in  knots.  Hundreds  of  men  poured  into  the 
night,  gesticulating,  shouting,  congesting  in  black 
groups,  whence  a  broken  clamor  of  voices  rose.  He 
realized  the  strangeness  of  it,  that  something  was 
the  matter,  but  it  was  all  dim  and  of  no  importance 
to  him.  His  mind  held  only  one  thought.  Rushing 
past  them  he  cried: 

"Barclay!  Is  Barclay  up  yet?  Do  you  know  where 
Barclay  is?" 

An  Irishman,  who  stumbled  against  him  in  the 
dark,  paused  long  enough  to  shout  to  him: 

"It's  Barclay  that's  hurt.  Hurry  up,  Colonel,  they'll 
be  wanting  you  inside.  It's  a  doctor 'I'm  after.  God 
knows  if  he  is  where  they  say  he  is,  there's  no  life  in 
him  now." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE    AROUSED    LION 

Black  Dan,  as  he  walked  to  the  office  that  Friday 
morning,  had  been  giving  serious  thought  to  the  sit- 
uation of  his  son-in-law.  Mercedes  had  not  spent  the 
summer  in  Virginia  as  her  father  had  hoped  and 
expected.  When  he  saw  her  in  San  Francisco,  as 
he  did  every  few  weeks,  she  talked  of  her  delicate 
throat  and  expressed  a  fear  of  the  climate.  It  was 
evident  that  she  could  not  or  would  not  live  there. 

That  his  daughter  loved  her  husband  Black  Dan 
had  no  doubt.  And  as  he  walked  to  the  mine  that 
morning  he  was  pondering  a  scheme  he  had  lately 
been  considering  of  sending  Jerry  to  San  Francisco, 
to  be  placed  in  charge  of  his  large  property  interests. 
Though  he  regarded  his  son-in-law  with  contemptu- 
ous dislike,  he  could  not  deny  that  the  young  man 
had  worked  hard  and  faithfully  all  summer.  More- 
over, the  stealthy  watch  kept  upon  him  had  revealed 
no  irregularities  in  his  conduct.  In  a  place  and  at 
a  time  when  men  led  wild  lives  with  wilder  asso- 
ciates, Jerry's  behavior  had  been  exemplary.  His 
life  had  been  given  to  work  and  business ;  women  had 
no  place  in  it. 

368 


THE  AROUSED  LION  369 

With  these  thoughts  in  his  mind  Black  Dan  entered 
the  office  and  paused  by  his  son-in-law's  desk.  As 
he  stood  there  a  boy  walked  in  and  handed  the  young 
man  a  small  gray  envelope  that  bore  a  superscrip- 
tion in  a  delicate  feminine  hand.  Black  Dan  also  saw 
that  Jerry,  under  his  unshakable  sang-froid,  was  dis- 
concerted. That  the  receipt  of  the  letter  was  disturb- 
ing to  its  recipient  was  as  plain  to  the  older  man  as 
that  the  letter  was  from  a  woman. 

He  passed  on  to  his  own  office  with  his  mind  in 
an  entirely  different  condition  from  what  it  had  been 
when  he  entered  the  building.  After  all  their  watch- 
fulness, was  Jerry  playing  at  his  old  game?  The 
thought  made  Black  Dan  breathe  curses  into  his 
beard.  He  saw  Rion,  himself  and  the  Colonel  out- 
witted, and  Jerry  laughing  at  them  in  his  sleeve. 
And  deeper  than  this  went  the  enraging  thought  of 
Mercedes  supplanted  by  one  of  the  women  that  flour- 
ish in  mining  camps,  birds  of  prey  that  batten  on  the 
passions  of  men. 

He  had  work  to  do,  however,  and,  for  to-day,  at 
least,  would  have  to  put  the  matter  out  of  his  mind. 
Time  enough  when  the  Easterners  were  gone.  Black 
Dan,  like  many  men  of  his  day  and  kind,  was  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  impress  the  Easterners,  and  to 
make  their  three  days'  stay  in  the  town  a  revel  of 
barbaric  luxury.  The  dinner  he  was  to  give  them 
that  evening  was  to  be  a  feast  of  unrivaled  splendor, 
every  course  ordered  from  San  Francisco,  the  wine  as 
choice  as  any  to  be  bought  in  the  country,  the  china, 
glass,  and  silver  imported  at  extravagant  cost  from 
the  greatest  factories  of  Europe,  the  cigars  of  a 


370  THE  PIONEER 

costly  rarity,  a  brand  especially  sent  from  Havana 
for  the  bonanza  king  and  his  associates. 

Now  from  among  the  specimens  of  ore  that  stood 
along  the  top  of  his  desk  he  selected  one  of  unusual 
form  and  value  to  give  to  the  most  distinguished  of  the 
strangers.  It  was  a  small  square  of  blackish  mineral 
on  which  a  fine,  wire-like  formation  of  native  silver 
had  coiled  itself  into  a  shape  that  resembled  a  rose. 
It  had  the  appearance  of  a  cunning  piece  of  the  silver- 
smith's art,  a  flower  of  silver  wire  delicately  poised 
on  a  tiny  fragment  of  quartz  rock.  Thrusting  it 
into  his  coat  pocket,  he  left  the  office,  on  his  way  out 
passing  Jerry,  who  was  bending  studiously  over  his 
desk. 

He  walked  rapidly  up  through  the  town,  to  the  same 
livery  stable  to  which  his  son-in-law  had  already 
paid  a  visit.  One  of  the  diversions  to  which  the 
visitors  were  treated  was  the  drive  along  the 
mountain  road  to  Washoe  Lake.  This,  Black  Dan 
had  arranged,  would  be  the  entertainment  for  the 
following  morning.  He  with  his  own  Kentucky  thor- 
oughbreds, would  drive  the  men,  while  the  women  of 
the  party  would  follow  in  a  hired  trap,  drawn  by  the 
horses  Jerry  had  ordered,  and  driven  by  the  expert 
whip  of  the  stable,  known  as  Spanish  George.  Such 
a  division  of  the  party  suited  Black  Dan  admirably, 
for  he  disliked  women,  shunning  their  society,  and 
when  forced  into  it,  becoming  more  somber  and  taci- 
turn than  ever. 

His  plan,  however,  received  an  unexpected  check. 
He  was  told  that  the  horses  were  engaged  by  Mr. 


THE  AROUSED  LION  371 

Barclay  for  that  evening.  Frowning  and  annoyed, 
he  demanded  why  that  should  prevent  him  from  hav- 
ing them  the  next  morning,  and  received  the  infor- 
mation that  Mr.  Barclay  was  to  drive  into  Reno  that 
night  with  them,  sending  them  back  in  the  morning, 
when  they  would  be  too  tired  by  the  twenty-one  miles 
over  the  grade,  to  go  out  again  immediately. 

Black  Dan  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  stable 
looking  with  attentive  eyes  at  his  informant.  As  the 
man  amplified  his  explanation  with  excuses,  the  bo- 
nanza king  said  nothing.  For  the  moment  his  own 
thoughts  were  too  engrossing  to  permit  of  words. 
A  puppy  that  was  playing  near  by  in  the  sunlight 
trotted  toward  him  and  bit  playfully  at  his  toe.  He 
turned  it  over  with  his  foot,  following  its  charmingly 
awkward  gambols  with  a  pondering  gaze. 

"Then  I  suppose  I  can't  have  Spanish  George 
either?"  he  said.  "Mr.  Barclay'll  take  him  in  to  drive 
the  horses  back,  and  he'll  take  his  time  about  it." 

"Oh,  you  can  have  Spanish  George  all  right,"  said 
the  stable-man,  relieved  that  he  could  give  his  pow- 
erful patron  something  he  wanted.  "Mr.  Barclay's 
driving  some  one  in  with  him.  He'll  have  one  of  the 
Reno  men  bring  the  horses  back." 

Black  Dan  looked  up,  his  broad,  dark  eyes  charged 
with  almost  fierce  attention. 

"Who's  he  driving  in?"  he  asked. 

"Don't  know,  sir.  He  didn't  say.  All  he  said  was 
that  he  couldn't  take  a  driver,  as  he  had  some  one 
with  him  and  he'd  send  the  team  back  in  the  morn- 
ing with  a  man  from  Reno." 


372  THE  PIONEER 

The  other  looked  down  at  the  puppy,  rolling  it 
gently  back  and  forth  with  his  large  foot. 

"When  did  you  say  he  was  going?"  he  asked. 

"Six-thirty.  His  valises  have  come  up  already. 
They're  in  the  office  now." 

He  pointed  backward  with  his  thumb  toward  the 
small,  partitioned-off  box  called  the  office.  But  Black 
Dan  did  not  seem  particularly  interested  in  the 
valises. 

"Well,"  he  said,  taking  his  foot  off  the  puppy  and 
pushing  it  carefully  aside,  "send  along  the  best  you 
have  with  Spanish  George  to  drive.  Be  at  the  In- 
ternational at  eleven  sharp.  I  don't  want  to  start 
later  than  that." 

,  He  left  the  stable  and  walked  slowly  down  the 
street  toward  the  Cresta  Plata.  His  eyes  were  down- 
cast, his  face  set  in  lines  of  absorbed  thought.  Whom 
was  Jerry  driving  into  Reno  that  night? 

As  he  walked  he  pieced  together  what  he  had 
just  heard  with  what  he  knew  already.  One  hour 
before  the  dinner  to  the  Easterners — at  which  he  was 
expected— Jerry  had  arranged  to  leave  the  town, 
driving  into  Reno  with  some  companion.  The  com- 
panion and  the  gray  note  instantly  connected  them- 
selves in  Black  Dan's  mind.  He  felt  as  certain  as 
a  man  could  be  without  absolute  confirmation  that 
Jerry  was  driving  in  with  a  woman.  The  daring 
insolence  of  it  made  the  blood,  which  moved  slowly 
in  the  morose  and  powerful  man,  rise  to  his  head. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  Jerry,  on  the  way  to  see 
his  wife,  was  going  to  stop  over  in  Reno  with  some 
woman  of  the  Virginia  streets? 


THE  AROUSED  LION  373 

Black  Dan's  swarthy  skin  was  slightly  flushed  when 
he  reached  the  office.  He  said  nothing  to  Jerry  as 
he  passed  his  desk.  In  his  own  private  office  he  sat 
still,  staring  in  front  of  him  at  the  geological  map 
hanging  on  the  wall.  He  was  slow  to  wrath,  but 
his  wrath,  like  his  love,  once  roused  was  of  a  primi- 
tive intensity.  As  he  sat  staring  at  the  map  his  anger 
gathered  and  grew. 

At  four  o'clock  the  eastern  party  and  their  guides 
were  due  to  meet  in  the  hoisting  works  for  their  ex- 
cursion down  the  mine.  It  was  nearly  a  half-hour 
later,  however,  when  the  two  ladies,  who  made  up  the 
feminine  portion  of  the  party,  slunk  out  of  the  spa- 
cious dressing-rooms,  giggling  and  blushing  in  their 
male  attire.  Jerry,  Marsden  the  foreman,  and  one 
of  the  shift  bosses,  were  lounging  about  the  mouth 
of  the  shaft  waiting  for  them.  There  were  greetings 
and  laughter,  the  women  hugging  themselves  close 
in  the  long  overcoats  they  wore  against  the  chill  of 
the  downward  passage,  and  pulling  over  their  hair 
the  shapeless  cloth  caps  they  had  been  given  for  head- 
gear. 

Through  the  wide  opening  that  led  to  the  dumps 
the  figure  of  Black  Dan,  dark  against  the  brilliance 
of  the  afternoon,  could  be  seen  walking  on  the  car 
tracks  with  the  rest  of  the  party.  In  the  muddy  over- 
alls, long  boots  and  soft  felt  hat  which  was  the  regu- 
lation underground  dress  of  the  men,  he  presented 
the  appearance  of  some  black-browed,  heavily  bearded 
pirate  in  the  garb  of  a  tramp.  As  the  cage  slid  up 
to  the  shaft  mouth,  he  entered  the  building,  gave  the 
embarrassed  women  an  encouraging  nod,  and  selected 


374  THE  PIONEER 

a  lantern  from  a  collection  of  them  standing  in  a 
corner. 

With  little  cries  of  apprehension  the  women  stepped 
on  the  flat  square  of  flooring,  their  three  escorts 
ranged  closely  round  them,  the  signal  to  descend  was 
given,  and  the  cage  dropped  quickly  out  of  sight  into 
the  steaming  depths.  Black  Dan,  Barney  Sullivan 
and  the  strangers  were  to  descend  on  the  cage 
in  the  next  compartment,  and  while  they  waited  for 
it  to  come  up,  stood  talking  of  the  foivnations  of  the 
mineral,  how  it  had  been  found  and  of  the  varying 
richness  of  the  ore-bodies.  Suddenly  Black  Dan 
thought  of  his  specimen,  which  had  come  from  a  part 
of  the  mine  they  were  to  visit  first,  and  turning  went 
into  the  men's  dressing-room,  where  he  had  left  it 
in  his  coat  pocket. 

His  clothes  had  been  hung  on  the  last  of  a  line  of 
pegs  along  the  wall.  To  this  he  went,  and,  ignorant 
of  the  fact  that  Jerry  had  undressed  after  him,  thrust 
his  hand  into  the  pocket  of  what  he  thought  was  his 
own  coat.  Instead  of  the  stone  his  fingers  encoun- 
tered a  letter.  He  drew  it  out  and  saw  that  it  was 
the  one  he  had  seen  handed  to  his  son-in-law  a  few 
hours  before. 

At  once  he  drew  the  paper  from  the  envelope.  No 
qualm  of  conscience  deterred  him;  instead  he  ex- 
perienced a  sense  of  satisfaction  that  his  uncertainty 
should  be  thus  simply  brought  to  an  end.  His  eye 
traveled  over  the  few  lines,  instantly  grasping  their 
meaning.  He  knew  the  signature.  Jerry  was  not 
intriguing  with  a  common  woman  of  the  town;  he 


THE  AROUSED  LION  375 

was  deserting  his  wife  with  a  girl,  hitherto  of  un- 
spotted reputation,  and  for  years  beloved  by  Rion. 
It  meant  ruin  and  misery  for  the  two  human  beings 
nearest  to  the  bonanza  king's  heart. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  motionless,  the  letter  in  his 
hand,  and  before  his  eyes  he  saw  red.  Then  it  cleared 
away.  He  put  the  paper  back  in  its  envelope  and 
thrust  it  in  his  pocket.  When  he  came  out  into  the 
shaft  house  Barney  Sullivan  noticed  that  his  face  was 
reddened  and  that  the  whites  of  his  eyes  were  slightly 
bloodshot.  One  of  the  strangers  rallied  him  on  his 
absence,  which  had  been  of  some  minutes'  duration, 
and  he  made  no  answer,  simply  motioning  them  to 
get  on  the  cage  with  an  imperious  movement  of  his 
head. 

The  shaft  of  the  Cresta  Plata  was  over  two  thou- 
sand feet  in  depth,  and  the  heat  of  the  lower  levels 
was  terrific.  Here  the  miners,  naked,  save  for  a  cap, 
breechclout,  and  canvas  shoes,  worked  twenty-minute 
shifts,  unable  to  stand  the  fiery  atmosphere  for  longer. 
Cold  air  was  pumped  down  to  them  from  the  surface, 
the  pipes  that  carried  it  following  the  roofs  of  the 
long,  dark  tunnels,  their  mouths  blowing  life-giving 
coolness  into  stopes  where  the  men  could  not  touch 
their  metal  candlesticks,  and  the  iron  of  the  picks 
grew  hot.  There  were  places  where  the  drops  that 
fell  from  the  roof  raised  blisters  on  the  backs  they 
touched.  On  most  of  these  lower  levels  there  was 
much  water,  its  temperature  sometimes  boiling.  The 
miners  of  the  Cresta  Plata  had  a  saying  that  no  man 
had  ever  fallen  into  water  that  reached  to  his  hips 


376  THE  PIONEER 

and  lived.  At  the  bottom  of  the  shaft — the  "sump" 
in  mining  parlance — was  a  well  of  varying  depths 
which  perpetually  exhaled  a  scalding  steam. 

Black  Dan  took  his  guests  to  the  fifteen-hundred- 
foot  level,  whence  the  greatest  riches  of  the  mine  had 
been  taken.  He  was  more  than  usually  silent  as  they 
walked  from  tunnel  to  tunnel  and  drift  to  drift.  Bar- 
ney Sullivan  was  the  cicerone  of  the  party,  explaining 
the  formation,  talking  learnedly  of  the  dip  of  the  vein, 
holding  up  his  lantern  to  let  its  gleam  fall  on  the  dark 
bluish  "breast"  into  which  the  miners  drove  their 
picks  with  a  gasp  of  expelled  breath.  Nearly  an  hour 
had  passed  when  Black  Dan,  suddenly  drawing  him 
back,  whispered  to  him  that  he  was  going  up  to  the 
eight-hundred-foot  level  to  see  Jerry,  to  whom  he 
wished  to  give  some  instructions  about  the  dinner 
that  evening.  Barney,  nodding  his  comprehension, 
moved  on  with  the  guests,  and  Black  Dan  walked 
back  to  the  station. 

As  he  went  up  in  the  cage  he  passed  level  after 
level,  like  the  floors  of  a  great  underground  building. 
Yellow  lights  gleamed  through  the  darkness  on  the 
circular  forms  of  west  timbers,  hollowed  caves  trick- 
ling with  moisture,  car  tracks  running  into  blackness. 
Each  floor  was  peopled  with  wild,  naked  shapes,  delv- 
ing ferociously  in  this  torrid  inferno.  At  the  eight- 
hundred-foot  level  he  got  off,  the  bell  rang,  and  the 
empty  cage  went  sliding  up.  The  landing  on  to  which 
he  stepped  was  deserted,  and  he  walked  up  one  of 
the  tunnels  that  branched  from  it,  called  to  a  pick- 
boy,  whom  he  saw  in  the  distance,  that  he  wanted 
Mr.  Barclay  found  and  sent  to  him  at  once.  The 


THE  AROUSED  LION  377 

figure  of  the  boy  scudded  away  into  the  darkness, 
and  Black  Dan  went  back  to  the  landing. 

It  was  an  open  space,  a  small,  subterranean  room, 
the  lanterns  fastened  on  its  walls  gilding  with  their 
luster  the  pools  of  water  on  the  muddy  floor.  There 
were  boxes  used  for  seats  standing  about,  and  on 
pegs  in  the  timbers  the  miners'  coats  hung.  Where 
the  shaft  passed  down  there  were  several  square  open- 
ings— larger  than  ordinary  doorways,  iron-framed 
and  with  plates  of  iron  set  into  the  moist  ground — 
which  gave  egress  to  the  cages.  Now  there  was  only 
a  black  void  there,  the  long  shaft  stretching  hun- 
dreds of  feet  upward  and  downward. 

Black  Dan  sat  on  a  box,  waiting.  Afar  off  from 
some  unseen  tunnel  he  could  hear  the  faint  sound  of 
voices.  Near  by,  sharply  clear  in  the  stifling  quiet, 
came  the  drip  of  water  from  the  roof.  It  was  still 
very  hot,  a  moist,  suffocating  heat,  regarded  by  the 
miners  as  cool  after  the  fiery  depths  below.  He  pushed 
back  his  hat  and  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  face.  His 
eyes,  as  he  waited,  kept  watch  on  the  openings  of 
the  three  tunnels  that  diverged  from  this  central  point. 

One  of  them  was  an  inky  arch  in  a  frame  of  tim- 
bers. In  the  distance  of  the  others  lights  gleamed. 
Now  and  then  a  bare  body,  streaming  with  perspira- 
tion, came  into  view  pushing  an  ore  car.  With  an 
increasing  rattle  it  was  rolled  to  the  shaft  opening 
and  on  to  a  waiting  cage  which  slid  up.  The  miner 
slouched  back  into  the  gloom,  the  noise  of  the  empty 
car  he  propelled  before  him  gradually  dying  away. 
Black  Dan  could  hear  again  the  voices  and  then, 
muffled  by  earth  and  timbers,  the  thud  of  the  picks. 


378  THE  PIONEER 

Sitting  on  an  upturned  box — the  king  of  this  world 
of  subterranean  labor — he  sat  waiting,  motionless, 
save  for  his  moving  eyes. 

Suddenly  from  the  undefined  noises,  the  beat  of  an 
advancing  footfall  detached  itself.  He  gave  a  low, 
inarticulate  sound,  and  drew  himself  upright,  a  hand 
falling  on  either  knee,  his  dark  face  full  of  a  grim 
fixity  of  attention.  Down  one  of  the  tunnels  the 
figure  of  Jerry  came  into  view,  walking  rapidly. 

He  was  smiling,  for  this  summons  made  his  escape 
from  the  mine  easier  than  it  would  otherwise  have 
been.  A  word  or  two  from  Black  Dan  and  then  up 
on  the  cage,  and  then — away  into  the  night  where 
love  and  a  woman  were  waiting.  The  culminating 
excitement  of  the  day  made  his  eye  brilliant  and  deep- 
ened the  color  of  his  face.  Full  of  the  joys  and  juices 
of  life,  triumphantly  handsome  even  in  his  rough 
clothes,  he  was  a  man  made  for  the  seduction  of 
women.  Black  Dan  felt  it  and  it  deepened  his  hate. 

"Did  you  want  me?"  he  called  as  he  drew  near. 
"One  of  the  pick-boys  said  you  sent  for  me." 

"Yes,  I  want  to  see  you  for  a  moment.  I  want  to 
ask  you  about  something." 

The  elder  man  rose  slowly  from  his  box.  His  eyes 
were  burning  under  the  shadow  of  his  hat  brim. 

"Come  over  here  near  the  light,"  he  said.  "I've 
something  I  want  to  show  you." 

Near  the  entrance  to  the  shaft  there  was  a  large 
lantern,  backed  by  a  tin  reflector.  It  cast  a  powerful 
light  on  the  muddy  ground  and  the  plates  of  iron 
that  made  a  smooth  flooring  round  the  landing. 
Black  Dan  walked  to  it  and  stood  there  waiting.  As 


THE  AROUSED  LION  379 

Jerry  approached  he  drew  June's  letter  from  his 
pocket  and  handed  it  to  him. 

Jerry  was  taken  completely  off  his  guard,  and  for 
a  moment  was  speechless.  He  took  the  letter  and 
turned  it  over. 

"What's  this?  Where — where'd  you  get  it?"  he 
faltered,  his  tongue  suddenly  dry. 

For  answer  a  terrible  burst  of  profanity  broke  from 
the  older  man.  He  fell  on  Jerry  like  a  lion.  In  the 
grip  of  his  mighty  muscles  the  other  was  borne  back 
toward  the  opening  of  the  shaft,  helpless  and  strug- 
gling. He  clutched  at  the  iron  supports,  for  a  mo- 
ment caught  one  and  clung,  while  the  cry  of  his 
agony  rang  out  shrill  as  a  woman's.  In  the  next 
his  hands  were  torn  away  and  the  slippery  iron  plates 
slid  beneath  his  feet.  For  one,  instant  of  horror  he 
reeled  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss,  then  went  backward 
and  down.  A  cry  rose  that  passed  like  a  note  of  death 
through  the  upper  levels  of  the  mine. 

Black  Dan  ran  back  toward  the  nearest  tunnel 
mouth.  The  thud  of  the  picks  had  stopped.  The 
miners,  men  who  work  with  death  at  their  elbow, 
came  pouring  down  and  out,  scrambling  from  stopes, 
running  from  the  ends  of  drifts,  swarming  up  ladders 
from  places  of  remote,  steaming  darkness.  White- 
faced,  wild-eyed,  not  knowing  what  horror  of  sudden 
death  awaited  them,  they  came  rushing  toward  the 
place  where  their  chief  stood,  a  grim-visaged  figure 
at  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel. 

He  checked  them  with  a  raised  hand,  even  at  such 
a  moment  able  to  assert  his  command  over  them. 

"Keep  cool,  boys.     You're  all  right.     There's  been 


38o  THE  PIONEER 

an  accident.  It's  Barclay.  For  God's  sake,  tell  Mai*- 
den  to  keep  those  women  back." 

In  the  shaft  house  above,  Rion,  tired  of  waiting, 
was  lounging  up  and  down  when  the  bell  of  one  of 
the  compartments  gave  an  imperious  summons  for 
the  cage  to  descend. 

"They're  coming  up  at  last,"  said  Rion,  moving 
to  the  edge  of  the  shaft  and  stretching  himself  in 
yawning  relief.  "I  never  knew  Easterners  to  stand 
the  heat  so  long." 


CHAPTER   IX 

HOME 

On  the  Friday  morning  June  rose  with  an  oppres- 
sion of  death-like  dread  weighing  on  her.  Jerry  had 
only  told  her  to  hold  herself  in  readiness  for  that 
day;  she  knew  nothing  further.  But  the  morning  was 
not  half  spent  when  a  letter  came  from  him,  naming 
the  time  and  place  of  their  departure.  As  she  read 
her  dread  deepened.  The  ardent  words  of  love  with 
which  the  letter  began  and  ended  had  no  power  to 
overcome  her  sickened  reluctance.  She  was  moving 
onward  toward  an  action  which  she  contemplated 
with  despair  and  yet  toward  which  she  continued 
inevitably  to  advance. 

There  are  many  women  like  June,  who,  without  the 
force  to  resist  the  importunities  of  conquering  lovers, 
never  lose  their  sense  of  sin.  In  the  arms  of  the 
man  they  have  surrendered  to  it  is  heavy  at  their 
hearts.  The  years  do  not  lift  it,  and  the  men  who 
have  brought  them  to  ruin  grow  to  feel  its  chill  and 
despise  the  woman  who  has  not  been  strong  enough 
to  resist  or  completely  give  herself  up. 

During  the  rest  of  the  morning  she  remained  in 
her  room  trying  to  sort  her  clothes  and  pack  her  bag. 
Her  mind  was  in  a  state  of  stupefied  confusion.  She 


382  THE  PIONEER 

could  find  nothing,  could  not  remember  where  any- 
thing had  been  placed.  At  times  a  sensation  of 
nausea  and  feebleness  swept  over  her,  and  she  was 
forced  to  stop  in  the  work  she  was  doing,  and  sit 
down.  When  at  midday  the  servant  summoned  her 
to  lunch,  the  gathered  possessions  and  souvenirs  of 
years  were  scattered  over  the  furniture  and  about  the 
floor. 

In  the  afternoon  she  wrote  the  letter  to  the  Colo- 
nel. She  wrote  rapidly,  not  letting  herself  pause  to 
think,  the  pen  flying  over  the  paper.  When  it  was 
finished,  she  sealed  it  without  reading  it  over. 

The  rest  of  the  day  passed  with  lightning  swiftness. 
As  she  roamed  from  room  to  room,  or  sat  motion- 
less with  drawn  brows  and  rigidly  clasped  hands,  the 
chiming  of  the  hours  from  clocks  in  various  parts  of 
the  house  struck  loud  on  her  listening  ear.  The  clear, 
ringing  notes  of  three  seemed  hardly  to  have  sounded 
when  four  chimed  softly.  The  hours  were  rushing 
by.  With  their  headlong  flight  her  misery 
increased.  There  was  now  no  sitting  quiet, 
spellbound  in  waiting  immobility.  She  moved  rest- 
lessly from  window  to  window  looking  out  on  the 
desolation  that  hemmed  her  in.  It  had  no  pity  for 
her.  Her  little  passion,  a  bubble  on  the  whirlpool 
of  the  mining  town,  was  of  that  world  of  ephemera 
that  the  desert  passed  over  and  forgot. 

At  sunset  the  landscape  flushed  into  magical  beauty 
and  then  twilight  came,  and  suddenly,  on  its  heels, 
darkness.  The  night  was  a  crystalline,  deep  blue, 
the  stars  singularly  large  and  lustrous.  As  she  put 


HOME  383 

on  her  hat  and  jacket  she  felt  that  her  mouth  was 
dry,  and  if  called  upon  to  speak  she  would  have  had 
difficulty  in  articulating.  Over  her  face  she  draped  a 
thin,  dark  veil  sufficient  at  this  hour  to  obscure 
her  features  entirely.  On  the  way  out  she  called  the 
Chinaman  and  gave  him  the  letter  for  the  Colonel, 
whom  she  did  not  expect  back  before  Wednesday. 

She  made  her  way  to  the  end^of  the  town  through 
the  upper  residence  streets.  They  were  quite  dark 
at  this  hour  and  she  slipped  by,  a  slim  shadowy  shape, 
touched  now  and  then  into  momentary  distinctness 
by  the  gleam  of  a  street  lamp.  Outside  the  cluster- 
ing lights  of  the  city,  she  turned  downward  toward 
where  the  Geiger  grade,  looping  over  the  shoulder 
of  the  mountain,  enters  the  town.  Once  on  the  road 
itself  she  walked  with  breathless  speed,  the  beating 
of  her  heart  loud  in  her  own  ears.  She  passed  the  last 
of  the  hoisting  works,  the  sentinel  of  the  great  line 
that  was  stirring  the  world,  and  saw  the  road  stretch 
gray  and  bare  before  her. 

Her  light  footfall  made  no  sound  in  the  dust. 
Straining  to  penetrate  the  darkness  with  a  forward 
gaze  she  advanced,  less  rapidly.  The  dim  form  of 
the  deserted  cabin  loomed  up,  and  then,  just  beyond 
it,  gradually  taking  shape  out  of  the  surrounding 
blackness,  a  buggy  with  a  muffled  figure  in  the  seat. 

For  a  moment  she  stopped,  feeling  faint,  her  clear- 
ness of  reason  and  vision  becoming  blurred.  But  in 
an  instant  the  weakness  passed  and  she  walked  on 
hesitatingly  and  softly,  staring  at  the  indistinct  figure 
and  drawn  irresistibly  forward.  As  she  approached, 


384  THE  PIONEER 

she  saw  that  the  man  sat  motionless,  his  back  to- 
ward her.  She  was  close  to  the  buggy  when  the 
soft  padding  of  her  footsteps  in  the  dust  caught  his 
ear.  He  turned  with  a  start,  revealing  by  the  faint 
starlight  that  section  of  a  coarse,  strange  face  to  be 
seen  between  the  peak  of  a  woolen  cap  and  the  edge 
of  an  upturned  coat  collar. 

"Pardon,  lady,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "Mr, 
Barclay  hasn't  come  yet." 

June  came  to  an  abrupt  halt  by  the  side  of  the  car- 
riage. She  stood  without  movement  or  sound,  para- 
lyzed by  the  unexpectedness  of  the  unknown  voice 
and  face.  For  the  first  dazed  moment  following  on 
the  shock  there  was  a  complete  suspension  of  all  her 
faculties. 

There  had  been  much  surreptitious  speculation  in 
the  livery  stable  as  to  whom  Jerry  Barclay  was  driv- 
ing into  Reno.  The  man  now  in  the  buggy  had  been 
sure  it  was  a  woman.  Seeing  his  suspicions  verified 
he  tried  to  distinguish  her  features  through  the  dark- 
ness and  the  veil  she  wore.  He  leaned  forward, 
eying  her  keenly,  but  making  out  nothing  beyond 
a  slender  shape,  the  face  concealed  by  a  film  of  gauze. 

"He's  probably  been  detained  at  the  mine,"  he  said 
cheeringly.  "They've  that  gang  of  Easterners  goin' 
down  this  afternoon." 

The  girl  made  no  answer,  but  drew  back  a  step 
or  two  from  the  carriage. 

"If  you'll  get  in  I'll  drive  you  up  and  down  for 
a  spell/'  he  said.  "It's  cold  work  standin'  round  on 
a  night  like  this." 

"No,"  she  answered  in  a  muffled  voice;  "no." 


HOME  385 

"Put  your  bag  in,  anyway,"  he  suggested,  stretch- 
ing a  hand  for  it. 

She  drew  back  another  step  and  moved  the  hand 
holding  the  bag  behind  her. 

"Just  as  you  like,"  he  returned,  the  familiarity  of 
his  manner  suddenly  chilled  by  annoyance.  "It's  for 
you  to  say." 

She  retreated  still  farther  until  stopped  by  a  growth 
of  sage  at  the  edge  of  the  road.  The  man,  seeing  he 
could  discover  nothing  from  her,  gathered  up  his 
reins. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  can't  run  no  risks  with  the  finest 
team  in  the  state  of  Nevada.  I'll  have  to  walk  'em 
up  and  down  till  Mr.  Barclay  gets  here.  He  said 
he'd  be  before  time,  and  he's  nearly  fifteen  minutes 
late  now." 

He  chirped  to  the  horses,  who  immediately  started 
on  a  gentle  trot.  The  dust  muffled  their  hoof-beats, 
and  noiselessly,  with  something  of  stealth  and  mystery 
in  the  soft  swiftness  of  their  withdrawal,  they  re- 
ceded into  the  blackness  of  the  night. 

June  stood  for  a  moment  looking  after  them,  then 
turned  to  where  the  town  sparkled  in  descending 
tiers  of  streets.  Its  noise  came  to  her  ears,  the  hum 
of  human  voices,  and  suddenly  the  misery  that  had 
held  her  in  a  state  of  broken  acquiescence  all  day, 
that  had  been  growing  in  her  for  weeks,  rose  into  a 
climax  of  terrified  revolt.  The  full  horror  of  her 
action  burst  upon  her.  In  a  flash  of  revelation  she 
saw  it  clearly,  unblinded  by  passion.  Her  repulsion 
toward  Jerry's  wooing  surged  up  in  her  in  a  frantic 
desire  to  escape,  to  get  away  from  him.  She  feared 


386  THE  PIONEER 

him,  she  longed  to  creep  away  and  hide  from  him — 
the  terrible  Jerry,  her  merciless  master,  before  whom 
she  cowered  and  trembled. 

She  cast  a  fearful  look  into  the  darkness  behind 
her  and  made  out  the  shape  of  the  buggy  just  turn- 
ing for  the  backward  trip.  It  would  be  beside  her 
again  in  a  few  minutes.  In  front,  stretching  to  the 
town,  the  road  lay  dark  and  deserted.  She  gripped 
her  bag  and  started  out  toward  the  blinking  lights, 
running  at  first,  lightly  and  noiselessly  on  the  trodden 
vegetation  that  edged  the  path. 

Her  engrossing  thought  was  that  she  might  meet 
Jerry.  In  the  condition  of  nervous  exhaustion  to 
which  the  long  strain  of  the  past  months  had  re- 
duced her,  she  had  lost  all  confidence  in  her  power 
to  direct  her  own  actions,  and  resist  the  dominating 
man  who  had  had  her  so  completely  under  his  con- 
trol. If  she  met  him  now  it  would  be  the  end.  He 
would  not  cajole  and  kiss  her.  He  would  order  her 
into  the  buggy  and  ride  away  with  her  into  the 
night. 

Several  times  she  met  men,  dark  figures  against  the 
lights  beyond.  At  the  first  glance  she  could  see  by 
their  build  or  gait  that  they  were  not  Jerry.  One, 
of  lighter  mold  and  more  elastic  walk,  caused  her 
to  pause  for  a  stricken  moment  and  then  shrink  back 
in  the  shadow  of  a  cabin  till  she  saw  her  fears  were 
unfounded.  As  the  lights  grew  brighter  and  she 
entered  the  sparsely  settled  end  of  C  Street,  she 
slackened  her  speed  and  gazed  ahead,  alertly  wary. 
She  did  not  see  but  that  he  must  come  this  way, 
unless  he  chose  the  longer  and  more  secluded  route, 


HOME  387 

among  the  miners'  lodging  houses  and  cabins,  climb- 
ing up  from  there  to  the  road  above. 

She  had  started  to  return  without  any  fixed  idea 
of  her  goal.  As  she  advanced  she  thought  of  this 
and  immediately  the  Colonel  arose  to  her  mind  as  a 
rock  behind  which  there  was  shelter,  his  lodgings 
as  the  one  place  where  she  would  find  protection. 
In  the  bewilderment  of  her  mind  she  forgot  that  he 
was  not  due  to  return  yet,  only  remembering  his 
original  statement  that  he  would  be  back  on  Friday 
night.  If  she  could  reach  his  rooms  without  meeting 
Jerry  she  would  be  safe.  She  felt  like  a  child  who 
has  run  away  to  find  adventures  and  is  suddenly 
stricken  with  the  horror  of  strangeness  and  the  wild 
and  piercing  longing  for  the  familiar  things  of  home. 

The  evening  turmoil  of  C  Street  had  begun. 
Looking  up  its  length,  roofed  by  its  wooden  arcade, 
was  like  looking  into  a  lighted  tunnel,  swaying  with 
heads.  The  glare  from  the  show-windows,  the  lights 
from  lamps,  and  the  agitated  flaring  of  lanterns  on 
the  street  hawkers'  barrows,  were  concentrated  with- 
in this  echoing  tunnel  and  played  on  every  variety  of 
face,  as  the  crowd  came  sweeping  down  on  June.  It 
seemed  to  catch  her  in  its  eddies  and  whirl  her  for- 
ward, a  dark  shape,  furtive-eyed  and  stealthy- footed 
in  the  fierce,  bubbling  buoyancy  of  the  throng,  silent 
amid  its  hubbub. 

There  seemed  to  her  more  noise  to-night,  more  of 
a  seething,  whirling  froth  of  excitement  than  she 
had  ever  noticed  before.  She  thought  it  a  reflection 
of  her  own  fever  and  hurried  on,  her  eyes  gleaming 
through  her  veil  in  peering  looks  sent  ahead  for 


388  THE  PIONEER 

Jerry.  She  was  nearing  the  short  street  which  led 
down  to  the  Cresta  Plata,  when  from  two  miners, 
almost  running  past  her,  she  heard  his  name.  Her 
heart  leaped,  and  for  a  second  she  flinched  and  shrank 
back  into  the  doorway.  As  she  stood  there  a  group 
of  men  brushed  by  in  the  opposite  direction  and  from 
these,  as  they  paused  for  a  second  at  her  side,  she 
heard  a  question  and  answer: 

"How  did  he  come  to  fall?    Did  he  slip?" 

"Yes,  on  the  iron  plates.  He  stepped  back  and 
then  slipped,  and  before  Black  Dan  could  get  him 
he  was  gone.  It  was  all  done  in  a  minute." 

"Lord!"  came  the  ejaculation  in  a  tone  of  horror. 

She  started  on  and  from  a  cluster  of  men  stand- 
ing in  a  saloon  doorway  she  again  heard  his  name. 
The  prespiration  broke  out  on  her  face.  At  the 
mouth  of  the  lane  that  led  to  the  Cresta  Plata 
a  crowd  with  restless  edges,  that  moved  down 
toward  the  hoisting  works  and  swayed  out  into  the 
roadway,  made  a  black  mass,  expanding  and  de- 
creasing as  its  members  dispersed  or  drew  together. 
It  was  too  early  for  the  day  shift  to  be  coming  up, 
and  she  looked  at  it  with  sidelong  alarm.  It  was 
part  of  the  unusualness  of  this  weird  and  awful  night. 
And  again  as  she  threaded  her  way  through  the  scat- 
tering of  figures  on  its  outskirts  she  heard  his  name, 
twice  in  the  moment  of  passing. 

What  was  the  matter?  Why  were  they  all  talking 
of  him?  The  sense  of  horror  that  weighed  on  her 
seemed  to  increase  until  it  became  threatening  and 
tragic.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  in  a  nightmare,  with 
the  Colonel's  rooms  and  the  Colonel  the  only  place 


HOME  389 

of  safety  and  means  of  escape.  She  forgot  to  be  cau- 
tious and  started  to  run,  pushing  her  way  through 
the  crowd,  dodging  round  the  edges  of  excited  groups, 
brushing  by  knots  of  women  collected  at  the  foot 
of  stairways,  and  from  every  group  the  name  of 
Jerry  followed  her. 

Suddenly,  between  the  massed  and  moving  figures 
she  saw  the  glare  of  the  colored  bottles  in  the  win- 
dow of  Caswell's  drug  store.  It  was  over  this  store 
that  the  Colonel  lived.  At  one  side,  outside  the  bril- 
liant radiance  of  the  bottled  transparencies,  a  small, 
dark  door  gave  on  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  floor 
above.  From  its  central  panel  a  bell-handle  pro- 
truded. She  tried  the  knob  first  and  found  that  it 
yielded.  Opening  it  softly  she  looked  up  the  dim 
stairway  and  saw  in  the  hall  above  a  light  burning. 
She  ran  up,  her  steps  subdued  on  the  worn  carpet.  A 
narrow  corridor  divided  the  floor,  passing  from  a 
door  that  opened  on  the  front  balcony  back  to  an  an- 
terior region  where  the  landlady  lived  and  let  rooms 
to  less  illustrious  lodgers.  Of  the  two  suites  in  the 
front  that  on  the  left  was  occupied  by  Rion  Gracey, 
the  other  by  the  Colonel.  June  had  often  been  in 
these  rooms.  She  opened  the  door  and  looked  in. 

The  door  gave  into  the  sitting-room,  empty  of 
occupants  and  unlit.  But  the  Colonel's  landlady  had 
not  been  advised  of  his  change  of  plans,  and  in  ex- 
pectation of  his  return  a  fire  burned  in  the  grate  and 
cast  a  warm,  cheering  light  over  the  simple  furnish- 
ings and  the  arm-chair  drawn  up  in  front  of  it.  June 
crept  in  and  shut  the  door.  She  fell  into  the  arm- 
chair with  her  hands  over  her  face  and  sat  limp  and 


390  THE  PIONEER 

motionless  in  the  firelight.  The  noise  of  th«  town 
came  dulled  to  her  ears.  She  had  escaped  from  Jerry 
and  the  pursuing  echo  of  his  name. 

A  half-hour  later  the  Colonel  found  her  there. 
After  a  hurried  search  for  her  through  the  town  he 
had  been  seized  by  the  hope  that  she  might  have 
sought  shelter  with  him. 

As  the  opening  of  the  door  fell  on  her  ear  she 
raised  her  head  and  looked  up.  He  saw  her  in  the 
firelight,  all  dark  in  the  half-lit  room,  save  for  her 
white  face  and  hands.  An  exclamation  of  passionate 
relief  broke  from  him,  and  as  she  rose  and  ran  to 
him  he  held  out  his  arms  and  clasped  her.  They 
said  nothing  for  a  moment,  clinging  mutely  together, 
her  face  buried  in  his  shoulders,  his  hand  pressing 
her  head  against  his  heart.  Then  she  drew  herself 
away  from  him  and  tried  to  tell  him  the  story  in  a 
series  of  broken  sentences,  but  he  silenced  her  and  put 
her  back  in  the  chair. 

"Wait  till  to-morrow,"  he  said,  kneeling  down  be- 
side her  to  stir  up  the  fire  into  a  redder  blaze.  "You 
can  tell  it  all  to-morrow.  And,  anyway,  there's  no 
necessity  to  tell  it.  I  know  it  now." 

"Do  you  know  what  I  was  going  to  do — nearly 
did?" 

"Yes,  all  about  it.     I  got  your  letter." 

"Do  you  despise  me?"  she  said    faintly. 

"No,"  he  answered. 

The  fire  began  to  burn  brightly.  They  sat  for  a 
moment  looking  into  it;  then  leaning  toward  him  over 
the  arm  of  the  chair,  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper, 

''Where's  Jerry?" 


HOME  391 

"Jerry?"  he  answered  with  a  sudden  slowness  of 
utterance.  "Jerry?  Jerry's  somewhere." 

"As  I  came  along  everybody  seemed  to  be  talking 
of  him.  I  heard  his  name  all  along  the  street.  It 
seemed  as  if  it  was  following  me.  I'm  afraid  of 
Jerry." 

"You  needn't  be  any  more.  You  won't  see  him 
again.  There's — he's — I'll  tell  you  about  that  to- 
morrow, too." 

"Will  you  let  me  stay  with  you?"  she  continued. 
"Will  you  let  me  live  here,  somewhere  near  you  ?  Will 
you  take  care  of  me?" 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it,  then  held  it  out, 
cold  and  trembling,  to  the  blaze,  nodding  his  answer 
without  looking  at  her. 

"I  have  nowhere  else  to  go.  I  don't  know  where 
my  father  is.  Uncle  Jim,  I  can't  live  up  in  the  Mur- 
chison  mansion  alone.  It's  full  of  ghosts  and  memo- 
ries. I'm  afraid  of  it.  I'm  afraid  of  Jerry.  I'm 
afraid  of  myself." 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  any  more.  I'm  going  to 
take  care  of  you  now.  We'll  get  some  rooms  for  you 
back  here  with  the  landlady,  and  by  and  by  we'll 
get  something  better.  You're  never  going  back  to 
the  Murchison  mansion." 

"I  was  so  close  to  dreadful  things  there,"  she  mur- 
mured. "It  was  so — " 

A  man's  step  sounded  on  the  stairs,  mounted 
quickly  and  then  struck  a  resonant  response  from 
the  wooden  flooring  of  the  hall. 

"Who's  that?"  she  whispered,  with  hurried  alarm, 
her  figure  drawn  alertly  upright  as  if  to  rise  and 


392  THE  PIONEER 

fly.  "Is  that  some  one  coming  in?  Don't  let  them. 
I  don't  want  to  see  any  one  now." 

The  Colonel,  after  a  listening  moment,  reassured 
her. 

"That's  only  Rion,"  he  said.  "You  needn't  bother 
about  him.  He  lives  just  across  the  hall." 

She  murmured  an  "Oh !"  of  relieved  comprehension 
and  fell  back  in  the  chair. 

They  were  silent  for  a  space,  both  looking  into  the 
heart  of  the  fire,  its  red  light  playing  on  their  faces, 
the  woman  leaning  back  languidly,  sunk  in  an  apathy 
of  exhausted  relief;  the  man  possessed  by  a  sense  of 
contentment  more  rich  and  absolute  than  he  had 
hoped  ever  again  to  feel. 


THE  END 


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